JERUSALEM: BOUNDARIES, SPACES, AND HETEROTOPIAS OF CONFLICT

by

CATHERINE BUSH

A THESIS

Presented to the Conflict and Dispute Resolution Program and the Graduate School of the University of Oregon

in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

Master of Science

December 2016

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THESIS APPROVAL PAGE Student: Catherine Bush Title: Jerusalem: Boundaries, Spaces, and Heterotopias of Conflict This thesis has been accepted and approved in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Master of Science degree in the Conflict and Dispute Resolution Program by: Diane Baxter Chairperson Shaul Cohen Member and Scott L. Pratt Dean of the Graduate School Original approval signatures are on file with the University of Oregon Graduate School. Degree awarded December 2016.

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© 2016 Catherine Bush

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THESIS ABSTRACT Catherine Bush Master of Science Conflict and Dispute Resolution Program December 2016 Title: Jerusalem: Boundaries, Spaces, and Heterotopias of Conflict

This paper aims to tell many different stories about life in Jerusalem. It is, in part,

about the human suffering that exists under Israeli occupation. It is about the legitimacy

of powerful narratives, despite inaccuracies and contradictions. It is about the resilience

and tenacity of various communities on either side of a complex conflict. But primarily,

this is a paper about borders: both physical and intangible boundaries that divide and

define various communities in Jerusalem.

Boundaries reveal a society through their construction, destruction, and definition

of space. Because borders are demonstrated through anecdote, I examine boundaries

largely through ethnography, exploring four specific types of boundaries and spaces:

physical-political boundaries, boundaries based on cultural identity, gendered spaces, and

heterotopias. Political and social shifts occur on boundaries where contact, conflict, and

compromise exist. By examining sites that are particularly vulnerable to transition, we

can better understand societal change and affect genuine resolution.

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CURRICULUM VITAE NAME OF AUTHOR: Catherine Bush GRADUATE AND UNDERGRADUATE SCHOOLS ATTENDED: University of Oregon, Eugene University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill DEGREES AWARDED: Master Science, 2016, University of Oregon Juris Doctorate, 2016, University of Oregon Bachelor of Fine Arts, 2007, University of North Carolina AREAS OF SPECIAL INTEREST: Conflict and Dispute Resolution Geography Israel Palestine

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my advisor, Dr. Diane Baxter, for her continued guidance,

encouragement, and mentorship. Her support extended well beyond this thesis and I am

immensely grateful for her. I would like to thank Dr. Shaul Cohen for his advice and

expertise as a committee member. Thank you to my incredibly supportive family and

dear friends, both at home and abroad. Lastly, I must mention my deep appreciation and

fondness for the Khoury family, who welcomed me into their home with tremendous

generosity and love. I am forever grateful.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter Page I. INTRODUCTION ................................................................................................... 1

II. METHODOLOGY ................................................................................................. 3

III. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND .......................................................................... 6

The Making of an Israeli State ........................................................................ 6

Continued Hostility, Growing Resistance ....................................................... 10

Promises of Peace: The Oslo Accords ............................................................ 11

A Surplus Population: The Gaza Strip ............................................................ 14

IV. THEORETICAL BACKGROUND ...................................................................... 18

V. ETHNOGRAPHIES ............................................................................................... 26

Shu’fat Refugee Camp .................................................................................... 26

Anata ............................................................................................................... 35

Nachlaot .......................................................................................................... 40

Bab Al-Zahra .................................................................................................. 43

Musrara ........................................................................................................... 46

VI. BOUNDARIES, SPACES, AND HETEROTOPIAS IN JERUSALEM ............. 51

Physical-Political Boundaries ......................................................................... 51

Boundaries of Cultural Identity ...................................................................... 53

Gendered Spaces ............................................................................................. 60

Heterotopias .................................................................................................... 65

Conflict Resolution ......................................................................................... 68

VII. CONCLUSION ................................................................................................... 71

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Chapter Page

REFERENCES CITED ............................................................................................... 73

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CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION

The road turns from slabs of concrete to gravel to dust. A cloud erupts on either

side of the old sedan as we skid along the corridor between Anata and Shu’fat Refugee

Camp. I grip the car’s fractured armrest tightly and look over at the wiggling baby next to

me. No one is wearing a seatbelt and my instinct to reach for one is slowly fading from

me; some habits are wearing off, others are solidifying.

Despite the turbulent drive, we are relaxed and happy, our stomachs full from

chips and ice cream. Muhammad promised me a journey this evening and he bought us

an armful of treats in preparation. He could hardly open the car door on his own, falling

in as plastic bags tumbled onto his seat. Hanadi and her sisters cried out joyfully, but I

had no appetite left after our dinner feast. Still, I smiled and politely thanked Muhammad

as unwelcomed ice cream melted down my throat. We drive on. Suddenly from the

darkness, a mass emerges, a cement structure, a wall.

“The wall,” Muhammad says calmly, gesturing directly in front of us as we edge

closer and closer. He seems unafraid – of the wall, of the darkness, of the guards that I

imagine are nearby. I discover that there are not soldiers on regular patrol at this part of

the wall. Still, his response seems odd to me. I think about this night for many others.

Mostly, I think of Muhammad – his boldness or apathy. Later, I realize that although he

was deeply afraid, a resistance had grown inside of him and inside of many Palestinians:

a rumbling rebellion, eager but exhausted.

This paper aims to tell many different stories about life in Jerusalem. It is, in part,

about the Palestinian suffering that exists under Israeli occupation. It is about the

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legitimacy of powerful narratives, despite inaccuracies and contradictions. It is about the

resilience and tenacity of various communities on multiple sides of a complex and deeply

rooted conflict. But primarily, this is a paper about borders: both physical and intangible

boundaries that divide and describe various communities in Jerusalem.

Boundaries tell the story of a society through their construction, destruction, and

definition of social spaces. And, because “borders come to life at the level of the

narrative, anecdote and communication, through everyday experiences of individuals,”

(van Wijhe, 2010), I examine borders largely through ethnography. In particular, I focus

on the various neighborhoods that I lived in during my time in Jerusalem. I use these

descriptions to explore four specific types of boundaries and social spaces: physical-

political boundaries, boundaries based on cultural identity, boundaries based on gender,

and heterotopias.

This paper is organized into six parts. Part I includes an introduction. Part II

includes an explanation of methodology. Part III provides historical background. Part IV

explores existing literature and theory on boundaries, spaces, and heterotopias. Part V

includes ethnographies that describe the following communities: Shu’fat Refugee Camp,

Anata, Nachlaot, Bab al-Zahra, and Musrara. Part VI discusses the significance of the

described boundaries, connecting theory with examples from the ethnographic material.

Part VII offers closing reflections.

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CHAPTER II

METHODOLOGY

This thesis utilizes qualitative methods, including a literature review and

extensive participant observation to describe and analyze boundaries experienced in

various, interconnected communities in Jerusalem. I visited Israel and the West Bank

twice, residing in Jerusalem for seven total months. The first of these trips took place

from August 2013 to December 2013. The purpose of my first trip was to participate in

internships at two Palestinian non-governmental organizations in East Jerusalem: the

Women’s Center of Shu’fat Refugee Camp and the Center for Democracy and

Community Development.

The second trip took place from June 2014 to September 2014. The second trip

was driven by a desire to compile additional research. The escalating tension that I

witnessed in late 2013 culminated in Operation Protective Edge, Israel’s third military

operation into Gaza since disengagement in 2007. I resided in Jerusalem for nearly the

entirety of this operation, periodically traveling through various areas of Israel and the

West Bank.

During my seven months in the region, I resided in several Jerusalem

neighborhoods, including Anata, Nachlaot, Bab al-Zahra, and Musrara. Each area

possesses unique cultural, religious, and political identities, which overlap as often as

they conflict. While immersed in the various neighborhoods in which I resided, I

traversed official and unofficial borders daily in and around Jerusalem. Additionally, I

witnessed several significant shifts in boundaries and social spaces, often tied to the

region’s volatile political climate.

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Notably, there are several significant limitations to my research. First, my position

is one of an outsider to the conflict between Israelis and Palestinians. There is a deeply

rooted narrative of victimization, fear, and oppression that I cannot fully comprehend.

However, this status also granted me immense privilege and mobility to observe and

participate in daily life. As an American agnostic, I am not part of any main religious or

cultural group in the region. Accordingly, I was not immediately excluded in the same

way that I would have been otherwise. I was allowed to cross official borders and I was

permitted to enter spaces without a great deal of innate response to my identity.

Simultaneously, I acknowledge that my position as an outsider does not

necessitate objectivity. I have political biases and experiences that facilitate sympathy

toward certain parties more than others. While my analysis attempts neutrality, it is not

entirely divorced from my personal perspective. I acknowledge the powerful and valid

narrative of victimization experienced by Israelis; however, I also believe that

Palestinians are unjustifiably, systemically oppressed under Israel’s policies of

discrimination and collective punishment. In the scheme of history, the Jewish people

have been and continue to face extreme prejudice and violence toward their very identity.

While Israel must confront these same threats to its existence, the state has a

disproportionate amount of power over the daily life of Palestinians in East Jerusalem,

the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip, which it continues to abuse. In addition, Palestinian

leadership grossly manipulates its relative power, leaving the majority of average

Palestinians without suitable advocates or legitimate alternatives.

I acknowledge that my research is limited by the length of my time in the region.

Seven months is substantial in one sense. My time in Israel and Palestine impacted me

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immensely. And yet, seven months is a relatively brief amount of time to observe and

study a vibrant and complex region.

I changed the names in this account in order to protect the anonymity and

preserve the confidentiality of the individuals that I met during my time in Israel and

Palestine. On the subject of names, I must mention that in this region, and especially in

Jerusalem, many people, places, and things have more than one name. Often the name

that is used indicates an ideology, religion, political association, or personal narrative. I

will do my best to provide a brief note when controversial names arise in my writing.

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CHAPTER III

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

The Making of an Israeli State

Like many conflicts in the region, the modern Israeli-Palestinian conflict is

shaped by certain, reckless nation-building efforts of the Allied powers following the

World Wars. Upon the collapse of the Ottoman Empire after World War I, France and

Britain divided the land that now composes the modern Middle East into geopolitical

entities under French or British control, or portioned off entities to political allies. The

land that is now Israel and Palestine was designated to the British, commencing a period

of British Mandate. The British overtook a region with existing Arab and Jewish

populations, along with various conflicts between them.

Notably, a demographic shift started in the late 19th century as waves of Jewish

immigrants came to the region. In part, this rise in the Jewish population was due to the

Zionist movement. Zionist founder Theodor Herzl believed that anti-Semitism was

incurable and inherent in non-Jews, a conclusion reached based on the pattern of violence

against Jews throughout history. “We are one people,” Herzl wrote, “Our enemies have

made us one…Distress binds us together” (Rabinovich & Reinharz, 2008, p.18). Herzl

and other Zionist ideologues believed that the dispersion of Jews throughout the world

was partially responsible for this unique condition. Accordingly, an independent Jewish

state, particularly one in the biblical and historical home of the Jews, seemed to be the

only real solution.

At the end of the Second World War, Jews continued to wrestle with the wounds

of the Holocaust, which included the murder of six million people, numerous refugees,

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economic devastation, a loss of cultural property, and lasting psychological trauma.

Seven million people were dislocated and displaced, and many Holocaust survivors

remained in Displaced Persons camps for years after the conclusion of the Second World

War. Often, these camps were located in former concentration camps, where Jews had

been systematically murdered. Some Jewish refugees did not have anywhere to return to

– their homes having been destroyed by the war. Others were paralyzed by the fear of

returning to the anti-Semitic nations that allowed an atrocious genocide to take place.

Most nations around the world, including the United States, refused to take in more than

a limited number of Jewish refugees. Accordingly, many Holocaust survivors had

nowhere to go at the conclusion of the Second World War.

The Holocaust inflicted tremendous emotional trauma that continues to impact the

Jewish community. As Zeev Chafets (1986) explained, “The Holocaust was the awful

confirmation of Zionist doctrine, and what remained was a job of human and national

reconstruction. National independence promised a new era, the end to two millennia of

suffering and persecution” (p. 95). Jews longed practically and psychologically for a

Jewish state. A Jewish state would provide a safe place for Jewish refugees throughout

Europe, but also for any Jew in the diaspora to escape persecution and gather together in

a sacred homeland. Gradually, more Jews arrived from all over the world, bringing a

wide variety of cultures, languages, and visions for the future. While there was an idea

for the Jewish people to join in a united vision, the reality is that there were many

different opinions about the establishment of a Jewish homeland and a multitude of

concepts regarding the political and social dynamics of a Jewish state.

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However, from the Palestinian perspective, the steady increase in the Jewish

population seemed to threaten the Arab economy and the Arab character of the region.

There was a perception that Arabs had inhabited Palestine since ancient times, the very

earth sustaining and nurturing the roots of Palestinian families. On the other hand, some

Palestinians viewed the Jewish connection to Palestine as recent and transient.

Additionally, Arabs around the region were attaining independence from

colonizers. The Ottomans and the British had controlled the region for centuries. At last,

Palestinians had the opportunity for autonomy and sovereignty. A series of contradicting

agreements left Arabs particularly disenchanted with their British colonizers.

Further, hostility between Jews and Arabs grew increasingly prevalent,

permanent, and violent. In April of 1948, Irgun and Stern Gang operatives slaughtered

men, women, and children in the Palestinian village Deir Yassin. The story was told over

and over as fear and anger mounted throughout Arab communities. Arabs perpetrated and

ignited equal fear and anger in Jewish communities through violent attacks such as the

Hadassah convoy massacre in which 78 Jewish medical personal, patients, and militia

were slaughtered. A cycle of retaliation and defense began to infiltrate the region.

During the British Mandate, violence was also directed at the British as locals

resisted foreign rule. Unsuccessful at controlling the population, fed up with local

rebellion, and anxious to leave the region, the British suggested a plan for partitioning the

land between the Jewish and Arab populations, which the United Nations revised.

The UN Partition Plan was not an ideal solution for either Arab or Jewish

communities; however, the Jews saw the partition as a workable concession that would at

least allow for the realization of a Jewish state. However, hostile Arab neighboring

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nations threatened this hope, explicitly targeting the very existence of the Jews and

declaring the partition plan null and void.

On May 14, 1948 the British left Palestine and the Jewish population immediately

declared the existence of Israel as a Jewish state. Arab populations and neighboring

countries rejected this declaration and Arab armies invaded the region the following day.

The Arab Legion attacked Israel in Judea and Samaria. The Egyptian Army fought in

Gaza and Sinai. The Lebanese launched an attack in the Galilee. In addition, Iraq joined

the Arab Legion army and Syrians held the northern border. The Jews were surrounded

by aggressive armies aimed at destroying the small, new nation and annihilating its

citizens.

The war that followed is known as the 1948 War of Independence to Israelis or al-

Nakba, the Catastrophe, to the Arabs. The War of 1948 occupies a single time and space

in history; however, it impacted a multitude of realities, generating various complex and

powerful narratives. While the collective memories of Israelis and Palestinians contain

intricate and unique details concerning the War of 1948, dominant narratives rose from

each group that remain profound today.

For Israelis, a high personal cost was paid for the creation and protection of a

Jewish State. The magnitude of the casualties meant that almost every single family in

Israel experienced personal loss. Victory for the Jews meant continued existence, validity

of the Zionist vision, and preservation of Jewish identity within a persistently hostile

region.

Simultaneously, during the War of 1948 Arab armies surrounded Israel. Some

Arab leaders were inspired to defend the right of Palestinians to Arab rule, while others

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were motivated to gain additional territory and resources for their own nations. The

ensuing battles and defeat left accounts of Israeli soldiers destroying villages and exiling

civilians. Additionally, many Palestinians felt endangered and voluntarily fled from their

homes. These varied actions resulted in approximately 700,000 Palestinian refugees,

along with the destruction of Palestinian families, organizations, and leadership.

Accordingly, the legacy of al-Nakba is a tragic narrative of lost identity, dispossession,

resistance to occupation, and validity of the Palestinian cause.

At the end of the conflict, a line was drawn in the 1949 Armistice Agreement

between Israel and its neighbors: Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon and Syria. The line became

known as the Green Line because green ink was used to first outline the tentative border.

Over time, the Green Line became a demarcation used in negotiations and later guidance

for building the Separation Wall.

Continued Hostility, Growing Resistance

Following the 1948 war, tensions persisted between Israel and its Arab neighbors.

By 1967, the relationship was particularly strained and Egypt mobilized its forces along

the Israeli-Egyptian border in the Sinai Peninsula. Accounts vary regarding information

and motives, but the actions that followed Egypt’s mobilization are clear. Israel reacted

with a preemptive air strike and ground offensive that nearly destroyed the entirety of

Egypt’s air force and significantly damaged its military capabilities. Egypt retreated from

the Sinai Peninsula, which Israel subsequently conquered. Egypt also enticed Syria and

Jordan to attack Israel along their borders. Israel’s counterattack resulted in conquest of

vast swathes of land, including the Gaza Strip, the Sinai Peninsula, the Golan Heights,

and the West Bank, including East Jerusalem.

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The 1967 Arab-Israeli War is also commonly known as the Six Day War because

it was completed within a brief and turbulent six days. It was, undeniably, an astounding

victory for Israel and a deafening demonstration of Israel’s military capability.

Furthermore, Israel was now responsible for governing the newly conquered territories, a

task that proved particularly challenging.

Smoldering hostilities erupted into war again in the 1973 Yom Kippur War,

during which Israel, Egypt, and Syria traded victories and defeats, eventually concluding

with a UN brokered ceasefire, which additionally laid groundwork for subsequent

diplomatic processes. Israel withdrew from the Sinai Peninsula under terms of the Egypt-

Israel Peace Treaty of 1979, which developed following the 1978 Camp David Accords.

However, East Jerusalem, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip remained under Israeli

occupation. Israel’s attempt to govern these disputed territories was met with immense

challenges.

Over the next several decades, the Israeli occupation led to growing Palestinian

resistance and a myriad of political complexities. In 1987, the First Intifada (uprising)

erupted, commencing a period of violent unrest throughout the Occupied Palestinian

Territories.

Promises of Peace: The Oslo Accords

Eventually, both Israelis and Palestinians sought an end to the violence and

oppressive structure created during the First Intifada. Negotiations led to the Oslo I

Accord, officially named the Declaration of Principles on Interim Self-Government

Arrangements (DOP). The agreement’s main points were to create a Palestinian self-

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government, remove the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) from portions of occupied territory,

establish a timetable for future negotiations, and effect mutual recognition.

The DOP created a five-year interim Palestinian government with the ability to

establish and manage a police force, taxation, education, healthcare, welfare, and tourism.

In addition, the DOP called for the removal of the IDF from parts of Gaza and the West

Bank. The DOP also created a timetable for a permanent agreement between the Israeli

government and the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO). Additionally, the related

Letters of Mutual Recognition called for Israel to recognize the PLO as the representative

of the Palestinian people and for the PLO to recognize Israel as a state with the right to

exist.

The DOP was a step toward resolution of the Arab-Israeli conflict in several

ways. For one, it was the first face-to-face agreement between the Israeli government and

the PLO leadership. This was a profound moment in itself. Additionally, the DOP

established a degree of Palestinian self-governance. For the first time in many years,

Palestinians were given some level of self-determination and autonomy. Further, the

DOP agreement permitted the creation of a Palestinian police force and the return of

Palestinian leadership from abroad. This provided Palestinians with some degree of

power and it allowed Palestinian leadership to reconvene.

Further, the DOP initiated a peaceful solution to the Arab-Israeli conflict. As

President Bill Clinton stated at the DOP’s signing, “Above all, let us today pay tribute to

the leaders who had the courage to lead their people toward peace, away from the scars of

battle, the wounds and the loses of the past, toward a brighter tomorrow” (Bickerton &

Klausner, 2010, p. 260). Yasser Arafat, Chairman of the PLO, reiterated this hope and

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called for international support when he stated, “My people are hoping that this

agreement which we are signing today will usher in an age of peace, coexistence and

equal rights. We are relying on your role, Mr. President, and on the role of all the

countries which believe that without peace in the Middle East, peace in the world will not

be complete” (Bickerton & Klausner, 2010, p. 261).

Despite this optimism, there were several weaknesses in the DOP. A primary

issue was vagueness. The vague language of the provisions allowed both parties to reach

this monumental initial agreement. While this first step toward peace was valuable in

itself, the result was mounting confusion as both parties projected differing expectations

onto the convoluted provisions. In addition, notably missing from the DOP were central

issues of Jerusalem, Palestinian refugees, Jewish settlements, security and borders, which

were left to future negotiations. While the absence of these controversial issues allowed

consensus to begin, it led to confusion and left significant issues unresolved.

In 1995, the DOP was followed by Oslo II, which attempted to address some of

these remaining issues. Most notably, Oslo II created Area A, Area B, and Area C in the

West Bank, providing the Palestinian Authority with limited authority and responsibility

in Areas A and B. Additionally, Oslo II included the promise of further negotiations over

remaining final status issues.

The Oslo Accords signaled the prospect of diplomacy and peace between Israelis

and Palestinians. However, the agreements have been met with heavy criticism in recent

decades. Among other critiques, many argue that the Oslo Accords perpetuated the

conflict by legitimizing structures of the Israeli occupation and allowing the expansion of

Israeli settlements.

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In September of 2000, growing disillusionment with the Oslo Accords and an

increasing sense of oppression among Palestinians erupted in violence igniting the

Second Intifada. Waves of unrest ensued, including numerous suicide bombings. The

Israeli population faced unpredictable and unprecedented attacks.

Partially in response to the Second Intifada, Israel began construction of the

Separation Wall in 2002. The concept of a physical barrier between Israel and the West

Bank began with an initial proposal put forth in 1992 by Yitzhak Rabin, Israel’s then

Prime Minister. Various other administrations discussed the construction of a barrier and

proposed plans; however, it wasn’t until 2002 that approval and construction began under

Ariel Sharon’s government.

A Surplus Population: The Gaza Strip

The Gaza Strip, while geographically separate from Jerusalem, significantly

impacts Jerusalem’s political climate and social geography. In particular, the events of

Operation Protective Edge during the summer of 2014 inflicted deep wounds on

Jerusalem’s Arab and Israeli populations, significantly shifting boundaries. In particular,

I observed a palpable increase in hostility, as well as the fortification of numerous

physical barriers in the wake of rising violence. I arrived in Israel during the summer of

2014, only a few weeks prior to Israel’s launch of Operation Protective Edge into the

Gaza Strip and I left Israel shortly after the August ceasefire.

Israel seized the thin piece of land known as the Gaza Strip during the Six Day

War. In December 2003, Prime Minister Arial Sharon publically introduced a plan for

Israel’s unilateral withdrawal from Gaza. The plan included evacuation of over 8,000

Jewish settlers and dismantling of twenty-one Jewish settlements. Israel would maintain

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control of Gaza’s borders, including its border with Egypt, along with retaining control

over Gaza’s airspace and seacoast.

Generally, Palestinians welcomed Israel’s withdrawal from Gaza. Palestinian

Authority President Mahmoud Abbas called the withdrawal a “great historic victory”

(Bickerton & Klausner, 2010, p. 362), encouraging Gaza’s residents to maintain peaceful,

normal routines. As the IDF left Gaza, Palestinians reacted with chaotic celebration. For

many Palestinians, disengagement was affirmation that resistance could lead to

independence from Israel. Withdrawal generated optimism and excitement, though also

deep concern, as “the majority of Palestinians were apprehensive that Gaza would

become a vast prison under the external control of the IDF, which would retain the right

to intervene” (Bickerton & Klausner, 2010, p. 362). In Israel, response toward

withdrawal varied among groups. In particular, some groups believed that withdrawal put

Israel in greater danger. Others believed that by leaving Gaza, Israel increased its own

security.

Following years of armed struggle and resistance against Israel, the Palestinian

Authority stepped in to govern Gaza. The Palestinian Authority’s position was precarious

– forced to balance its dependence on outsiders including the US, Israel, and the EU to

build a secure, economically viable territory, along with a need to retain the support

Gaza’s residents, while Hamas and other Palestinian groups vied for allegiance. Hamas

celebrated Israel’s withdrawal from Gaza with a vow to continue the armed struggle to

liberate all of Palestine.

However, in late 2005, Gaza “descended into virtual lawlessness as the P.A.,

under President Abbas, lost control of the several militant groups” (Bickerton &

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Klausner, 2010, p. 371). Throughout the next years, Hamas and Fatah fluctuated between

collaboration toward a unity government and violent confrontation over issues of

legitimately, leadership, and relations with Israel. Ultimately, Hamas won a democratic

election and took control of Gaza, forcibly removing Fatah from governance.

Simultaneously, Israel and Palestinian armed groups frequently clashed. Israel

continued its policy of targeted assassinations and arrests, while Palestinian armed

groups, including Hamas, continued to attack Israeli targets. In 2007, Israel

imposed land, air, and sea blockades that remain in effect today. This blockade

significantly restricts mobility and constricts the economy.

As peace talks disintegrated in 2013, Gaza remained hostile, isolated, and in the

midst of a humanitarian crisis. Since Israel’s 2005 unilateral disengagement from the

Gaza Strip, Gaza was essentially secluded from the rest of the world. While the current

policy of isolation was severely imposed to produce a political climate that would

overturn Hamas, it has failed to meet this end. Rather, isolation eliminated Gaza’s

economic viability, created dependence on external funding, and fueled an alternative

tunnel economy that benefits Hamas at the expense of legitimate economic avenues.

Additionally, isolation perpetuated the estranged relationship between the West Bank and

the Gaza Strip, further deteriorating Palestinian national unity and undermining the

notion of a two-state solution.

Consequently, the situation in Gaza by the summer of 2014 was one of economic

peril and humanitarian crisis. The majority of Gaza’s residents dwell in impoverished

conditions with inadequate fundamental services, limited resources, and a restrictive

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economy. Moreover, the continuation of this status quo threatens to create an even worse

situation in coming years.

In the midst of these dire circumstances, a rogue Hamas cell kidnapped and

murdered three Israeli teenage boys near Jerusalem. Israel’s response was delivered in

several ways, including Operation Brothers Keeper. The operation centered on the town

of Hebron in the West Bank and involved a frantic search for the missing boys, a

vigorous hunt for the assailants, as well as widespread detainment of and collective

punishment for Palestinians in the West Bank and East Jerusalem.

As Operation Brothers Keeper came to an emotional close, pressure mounted

among Israel’s Jewish population for recourse, along with growing concern over the use

of rockets and tunnels by militants in Gaza. Accordingly, the IDF launched Operation

Protective Edge on July 7, 2014 with two stated goals: “restoring security to Israeli

civilians living under Hamas rocket fire” and “dismantling the Hamas tunnel network

used to infiltrate Israel” (Israeli Defense Forces).

Operation Protective Edge unfolded in three major military phases: air strikes,

ground invasion, and withdrawal. Ultimately, the operation lasted fifty days, concluding

with a ceasefire in late August 2014 and resulting in immense damage and distress in

Gaza. Officially, 2,215 Palestinians were killed, including 1,639 civilians and 556

children. Additionally, 32,028 Palestinian houses were damaged, along with the

destruction of substantial infrastructure (Power & van Hooydonk, 2015, p.7).

Furthermore, Operation Protective Edge significantly influenced the political climate of

Jerusalem, shifting and magnifying existing boundaries.

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CHAPTER IV

THEORETICAL BACKGROUND

A long history of academic study on boundaries has produced a robust reserve of

literature in several fields, including anthropology, economics, and geography. Within

these fields, a wide range of classifications exists, evolving under the shifting lens

philosophy and scholarship. Further, boundaries create social spaces that are prone to

examination as sites of activity and influence.

Boundaries are often “defined as the lines dividing distinct political, social, or

legal territories” (Hagen, 2013). Accordingly, several distinct categories of boundaries

emerge. Within the field of geography, political, cultural, economic, and regional

boundaries are examined, along with a wide variety of fluid subcategories – divisions of

divisions. Political geography includes divisions of sovereignty and territoriality, issues

of nationalism, cosmopolitanism, and geopolitics. Cultural geography examines the

politics of identity, including the influence of ethnicity, race, gender, sexuality, and

nationality. Economic geography looks at cross border economic interaction,

transportation, and globalization. Regional geography views territories as social

constructs and historical processes, emphasizing defined regions and regional identities.

Several additional classifications of boundaries appear throughout existing

literature. For instance, Peter Marcuse established a model based on the notion that five

residential areas and five economic activities exist in any city, each with its own

boundaries. According to Marcuse, cities contain five types of boundary walls, which are

classified according to function. These boundary walls include: prison walls, which

define and preserve enclaves or ghettos; barricade walls, which function for protection,

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cohesiveness, and solidarity through symbolism and expression of community identity;

walls of aggression, which include fences, and express domination and force; sheltering

walls of exclusiveness, which protect privilege; and, castle walls, which symbolize

domination and express economic, social, political superiority (Klein, 2005, p. 57-58).

Throughout the study of boundaries, additional attributions are associated with

these classifications. Marcuse characterized cities’ boundary walls as protective,

aggressive, exclusive, or dominant. However, boundaries are also assigned meanings,

such as: good and bad, constructive and deconstructive, natural and artificial. In Of Other

Spaces, Michel Foucault (1986) constructed a narrative beyond pure categorization,

speculating, “There were places where things had been put because they had been

violently displaced, and then on the contrary places where things found their natural

ground and stability” (p. 22).

Furthermore, while “borders define space; they also outline areas of differing laws

and social norms” (Diener & Hagen, 2012). Generally, social spaces are areas of human

interaction and can be physical, geographical places, but can also be virtual or

metaphysical. However, at their core, social spaces “are fusions of human and natural

order and are the significant centers of our immediate experience of the world.” (Relph,

1976, p. 141). In this sense, social spaces “are important sources of individual and

communal identity, and are often profound centers of human existence to which people

have deep emotional and psychological ties” (Relph, 1976, p. 141).

As with boundaries, social spaces are subject to their own additional

classifications and dissection. Spaces can be characterized by location, function,

accessibility, and duration of existence, among a multitude of other traits. Foucault

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(1986) described a hierarchy of places, with classifications that include “sacred places

and profane places; protected places and open, exposed places; urban places and rural

places” (p. 22).

Additionally, Lyman and Scott (1968) classified territory as private, home, public,

or a platform of interaction. Private territory is confined to the body. In this sense, private

territory is an intimate space that an individual cannot physically leave. Home territory is

defined as a personal residence, in which there is a great deal of personal freedom for

members. However, while members enjoy free accessibility to home territory, non-

members must be granted permission to enter. Alternatively, public territory is open to all

without a need for permission. Importantly, public territory is subject to more stringent

and binding rules of behavior. Lastly, platforms of interaction are territories with porous

borders in which social groups overlap and interact (Lyman & Scott, 1968).

These classifications of boundaries and social space are subject to shifting lens of

study. Early scholars primarily focused on territorial claims and physical demarcations,

commonly tied to national interests. According to Foucault (1986), the history of space

starts with a description of the “medieval space: the space of emplacement” (p. 22),

which is derived from the hierarchic ensemble of the Middle Ages.

Foucault (1986) argued that Galileo further developed the concept of space,

writing, “the real scandal of Galileo’s work lay…in his constitution of an infinite, and

infinitely open space” (p. 23). According to Foucault, the medieval hierarchy that defined

space was dissolved by this shift in approach. He found, “a thing’s place was no longer

anything but a point in its movement, just as the stability of a thing was only its

movement indefinitely slowed down” (Foucault, 1986, p. 23). In this way, Foucault

21

(1896) described a development in which “extension was substituted for localization” (p.

23).

Later scholarship on boundaries was highly influenced by globalization and the

concept of an imminently borderless world. In the 1980s, neoliberal, globalist

intellectuals and scholars argued, “borders will disappear and humanity will live in a

global village, a postmodern and de-territorialized hyperspace created by the processes of

globalization where the tyranny of distance is overthrown” (van Wijhe, 2010). However,

this idea has proved to be incorrect in the sense that borders continue to be a major part of

our reality, though there is increased connection. In fact, “The traditional function of

borders, to create barriers and to contain, is in some cases replaced by a bridging

function, to enable contact” (van Wijhe, 2010). Furthermore, globalization has added

complexity to the concept of boundaries and social spaces.

Accordingly, boundaries are now accepted as active and dynamic processes that

shape our reality. Rather than passive barriers, this recent shift emphasizes a process

aspect that recognizes the significant influence of boundaries on society. This process-

based scholarship “highlights borders as active forces and resources in international and

domestic political, social, and economic relations” (Hagen, 2013). Additionally, this

approach examines “the contingency and variability in bordering practices both across

space and time” (Hagen, 2013). The emerging policy-practice-perception approach

“considers borders and boundaries as products of social practice and integrates analyses

at different levels of scale” (van Wijhe, 2010). Under this updated lens, “the important

question is not where a boundary is but how, by what practices and in the face of what

resistance this boundary was imposed and ritualized” (Klein, 2005, p. 57).

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Furthermore, this shift examines the impact of boundaries on daily life,

emphasizing the ways in which boundaries construct identity. For example, Anssi Passi

(1999) linked boundaries with ontological identity narratives, pointing out “boundaries

between ‘us’ and ‘others’ are critical elements in establishing ‘us’ and excluding

‘others’” (p. 75). This process of labeling an individual or a group as the other and

establishing identity through this contrast and opposition is known as othering.

Additionally, Menachem Klein (2005) noted the “link between boundaries both as

symbols and as a specific form of institution, and state power. By excluding the ‘other’

through a border, the powerful state can institutionalize identities. In other words, border

construction is an expression of both physical and normative power relations” (p. 57).

Therefore, the use of boundaries to create and manipulate collective identities is

particularly significant in the context of group conflict.

These boundaries of identity are especially important in conflict resolution

processes. Dennis Galvan (2014) used Alfred Russel Wallace’s rosewood specimen

drawers as a metaphor for the traditional conception of identity. Like the beetles,

butterflies, and foliage collected and categorized in Wallace’s cabinets, political

communities are organized on the premise that people can also be classified by specific

characteristics. However, Galvan suggested that a fundamental flaw exists in the

underlying assumption that these identities are static. Accordingly, Galvan proposed the

junkyard as an alternative metaphor for identity diversity. In Galvan’s junkyard approach,

identity is under constant construction through a creative process of rummaging through

various materials. Further, the images of Wallace’s cabinet and the junkyard illustrate

conceptions of orthodoxy and syncretism. While orthodoxy enforces the drawers,

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syncretism embraces a policy of breaking the drawers, suggesting that we must live in the

balance of these two paradigms: orthodoxy and syncretism (Galvan, 2014).

Foucault (1986) described his epoch as an era of sites, related by proximity and

divided through various categories, such as sites of transportation, sites of temporary

relaxation, and sites of rest. Foucault (1986) explained, “we do not live in a kind of void,

inside of which we could place individuals and things. We do not live inside a void that

could be colored with diverse shades of light” (p. 23). Rather, Foucault (1986) argued,

“we live inside a set of relations that delineates sites which are irreducible to one another

and absolutely not superimposable on one another” (p. 23).

In particular, Foucault (1986) was drawn to sites, which are, “in relation with all

the other sites, but in such a way as to suspect, neutralize, or invert the set of relations

that they happen to designate, mirror, or reflect” (p. 24). Two main types of sites emerge

within these: utopias and heterotopias. Utopias are sites that lack place. Utopias are

fundamentally unreal in that they, “present society itself in a perfected form, or else

society turned upside down” (Foucault, 1986, p. 24). For example, the image in a mirror

is a utopia.

On the other hand, heterotopias are real sites that are physical or mental spaces of

otherness. They are layered with meaning and connected to distant spaces, often

expressing dualities. In this way, heterotopias are “a kind of effectively enacted utopia in

which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are

simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted” (Foucault, 1986, p. 24).

Foucault (1986) provided six principles of heterotopias. The first principle is that

all cultures and societies have heterotopias, though they function quite differently. Two

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main types emerge here: heterotopias of crisis and heterotopias of deviation. Heterotopias

of crisis are elite spaces for groups abnormal from their society. Heterotopias of deviation

are spaces where abnormal behavior is tolerated. In both scenarios, social norms are

suspended. A second principle is that a society can change the function of existing

heterotopias. An example is the cemetery, which has undergone tremendous shifts in

spiritual associations, proximity to other sites, and role in society through time.

Foucault’s (1986) third principle is that “the heterotopia is capable of juxtaposing in a

single real place several spaces” (p. 25). Therefore, heterotopias are places of

“superimposed meaning” often including several sites that are themselves incompatible.

Examples of this third principle include the theater and the garden. The fourth principle

connects heterotopias to “slices in time” (Foucault, 1986, p. 26). Heterotopias exist at a

break with the traditional view of time and can be linked to time both in the sense of the

accumulation of time such as at museums, as well as the transitory nature of time, such as

at festivals. Foucault’s (1986) fifth principle deems that “heterotopias always presuppose

a system of opening and closing that both isolates them and makes them penetrable” (p.

26). Generally, this does not allow for free access, rather entry is compulsory or

dependent acquiring permission, though an illusion of accessibility may exist when in

actuality entrance is exclusionary. Lastly, heterotopias “ have a function in relation to all

the space that remains” (Foucault, 1986, p. 27). These can be divided into spaces of

illusion or compensation, such as the case of brothels and colonies.

In this thesis, I describe and discuss four specific types of boundaries and spaces

in Jerusalem: physical-political boundaries, cultural boundaries of identity, gendered

25

spaces, and heterotopias. Additionally, I examine the ways in which these boundaries

create social spaces that shape the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

26

CHAPTER V

ETHNOGRAPHIES

Shu’fat Refugee Camp

I landed at Ben Gurion International Airport late in the summer of 2013. There is

a long list of things I do not know as I exit the plane. Among those, are various items of

information that most people would be concerned about not knowing as they enter a

foreign country rife with conflict. Major details of my trip were scattered in pockets and

pieces like my few belongings that I gather exiting the aircraft. The things I do not know

include: anyone in the region, Arabic or Hebrew, the location where I will sleep that

evening, and the evenings afterwards for that matter. However, I was not alarmed by any

of this at the time. Only in retrospect do I realize my own overwhelming uncertainty.

In university, I studied photography and one of my most beloved projects was a

series of self-portraits. In all of the images I am in mid-air, somewhere between sky and

ground, jumping or falling, always suspended. I have long been drawn to this sensation:

life without context, vulnerable, in the moment, and immersed in a bodily experience. In

my daily life in the Pacific Northwest, this phenomenon manifests through physical

activities – mountain biking, rock climbing, trail running. All require full engagement

with the present moment to approach the coming embankment, determine the next hold,

or feel out pace and stride. There is no space to worry about past or present when you are

thirty yards above ground or coasting downhill over a rocky terrain. And yet, the act itself

is meditative, therapeutic even.

Setting off for Jerusalem with a list of things I did not know was similarly and

exceptionally exhilarating. It is in this mental state that I walk out of the arrivals gate at

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Ben Gurion International Airport and into a semi-circle of eager, unfamiliar faces. The

crowd pulses with anticipation as it awaits loved ones, business partners, and traveling

friends. I scour the mass and, after a few panicked moments, I find what I am looking for:

an 8 by 10 sheet of white paper, “Cate Bush” scrawled across in jagged hand-writing.

Two Arab men stare back at me with kind and happy faces. I am equally relieved, never

before so happy to see my own name.

I quickly learn that neither man speaks English very well. I speak only a handful

of Arabic words, mostly greetings. We are a jovial, but cautious trio conversing in our

very limited shared vocabulary. For the most part, the two men banter back and forth

with each other in strange sounds of unknown meaning. And I silently grin, hazily

soaking in the curious world around me.

We journey east – across a desert where forested islands and crowded

communities rise and fall intermittently. A wall, then a fence, then a wall again winds

steadily through the landscape; an artificial spine built of concrete piles that alternate in

height; a barrier built out of fear, anger, guilt, or all of these emotions and many others.

The structure that rises from the arid landscape is the Separation Wall. Like many things

in the region, it has several names: the Israeli-West Bank barrier, the Security Fence, the

Apartheid Wall. Each carries its own degree of criticism or justification.

Here, I will call it the Separation Wall because it quite literally separates Israel

and the West Bank and because it was, in the places I traveled, primarily a wall rather

than a fence. Further, to call the wall a fence is misleading. To say that it is only a barrier

fails to demonstrate the magnitude of consequences on Israeli and Palestinian life due to

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impeded physical mobility as well as symbolic division; consequences that range from

slight inconveniences to pervasive oppression to perceptions of security.

The Separation Wall is one of the most noticeable physical-political boundaries

running between Israel and the West Bank. For the most part, the wall stands in the

shadow of the Green Line, a phantom reminder of an agreement from another time.

Although the Green Line guides its river-like curves, the Separation Wall ebbs and flows

mainly on Palestinian land, including and excluding certain areas to the benefit of Israel.

Construction on the Separation Wall began in the midst of the Second Intifada. In part,

the Separation Wall was built to protect Israel’s vulnerable population from the

unpredictable violence and continual threats from Palestinian militants. However, plans

for the wall precede the Second Intifada and in fact go back to the 1990s administration

of Yitzhak Rabin.

Touring the settlements outside of Jerusalem, I was told by a settler that the

Separation Wall was built out of guilt. I’m still not quite sure what David meant by

“guilt”. Perhaps he meant the guilt of the Israeli government for the loss of Israeli life

during suicide bombings, or the guilt of the Israeli government for implementing

oppressive policies in the West Bank, though I remain uncertain. Suicide bombings

decreased dramatically after building the Separation Wall. However, other factors could

have contributed to that decrease as well.

While the Separation Wall is a tremendous obstacle to mobility, it is not itself

impermeable. In the summer of 2014, I travel to Hebron and spend much of the day at the

house of a group of young men that document and publish human rights violations. We

sit outside in the yard of their shared house under a large olive tree. The young men of

29

Hebron talk about the Separation Wall as another physical barrier, one of many they’ve

encountered. But they also share personal stories of it’s crossing: friends hiding in cars or

traveling through less strictly guarded checkpoints in disguise. These are innocuous

attempts to reach the ocean or to visit friends or to get to work. At one point, the men

grow somber and whisper back and forth in Arabic. My friend Ahmed nods

empathetically and then assures them that it is okay to share in English. They talk in quiet

voices about bringing a ladder to the wall one evening. The Israeli police were nearby, so

the group frantically climbed over. One friend slipped in the rushed clamber and fell to

his death. The group had to leave their friend’s body crumpled in the shadow of the wall.

This is one tragic story of the Separation Wall. There are many more. Some shed light on

the oppressive weight of this barrier, while others justify its existence as necessary for

Israeli security.

About an hour from the airport, we reach our own standoff with the Separation

Wall at an Israeli checkpoint on the outskirts of Jerusalem and the edge of Shu’fat

Refugee Camp. While the camp is technically within the municipality of Jerusalem, the

checkpoint marks the guarded transition between the camp and the rest of Jerusalem,

which are separated by the Separation Wall. Without a proper permit or identification,

many of the camp residents are not permitted past the checkpoint into Jerusalem. The

Separation Wall is a visible vein, omnipresent in the camp, constantly reminding camp

Palestinians that there is a line they cannot cross, a limit to their mobility, an external

barrier weighing on their identity.

I show the young Israeli soldiers my passport as they look over the identification

cards provided by my two companions. Nodding, they let us pass, though a sharp and

30

suspicious gaze remains on me. Apart from the airport, this is the first official Israeli

checkpoint that I’ve encountered. In the coming months, I will travel through this

particular crossing daily. As time passes, the guards stop asking for my passport and

simply nod in my direction. While outwardly these interactions get easier for me,

mentally they grow in difficulty as the Separation Wall becomes representative of

occupation and privilege. Simultaneously, I form a resistance to my time in the camp.

There is a noticeable and physical tension that exists in the camp that is absent in the rest

of Jerusalem. My experience of crossing this border is fraught with contradictory

emotions and overall ambivalence as my political views evolve.

On this first day, I drive on the gravel road into the camp with eagerness and

naivety. My gaze fixes on passing structures and people, hungry for contact. It is late in

the afternoon – a time when the Judean sun beats down with particular intensity and

persistence. Deteriorating buildings rise around us in clusters constructed in white

concrete blocks. Dust and debris surround the old sedan as we journey through the

camp’s narrow roads. Young men move aside to let the car pass. There are women and

children and old men gathered near the streets as well, but mostly there are young men

coupled and grouped along the route. We dodge piles of garbage and other debris from

daily life in a crowded camp, while the stench of rotting food and decomposing stray

animals lingers in scattered pockets.

I walk up a cement path to the Women’s Center of Shu’fat Refugee Camp. A

large plaque guards the entrance. It tells of organizations and governments that funded

the center, noting the gratitude of the Palestinian people. There are many similar signs

throughout East Jerusalem and the West Bank, signs that declare a benefactor and give

31

thanks for foreign funding. I am amused by the multi-functionality of the signs, which

seem mostly to operate as an arm of foreign policy. “From the American people,” many

signs declare, the letters USAID plastered all over. Interestingly, discussions with groups

of Palestinians give some credibility to this foreign relations strategy. I am sitting in a

circle of family one night when the US administration is brought up. I am told of distaste

for Obama, disgust for Bush, but appreciation of USAID.

My two male companions open the heavy doors of the Women’s Center and I step

into a cool, sparse lobby. The girl behind the desk is in her late teens or very early

twenties. Her smile is kind and genuine, though timid in its expression, revealing a set of

erratically placed teeth crisscrossing along her jaw. Immediately, I am called into the

office of the director where I am warmly welcomed by a cluster of social workers and

administrators with smiles and laughter and curiosity. A woman, Wakka, offers tea or

coffee and I sip the hot, sweet liquid with nostalgia – though for what I’m not quite sure.

Perhaps part of me already knew the significant and lasting impact of this place and these

people.

The Women’s Center stands out from the rest of the Camp’s landscape. For one

thing, it is a relatively new construction among a crowd of deteriorating buildings. It is

visibly unique with sterile, open spaces and an atmosphere that preserves a fragile order.

Additionally, the Women’s Center is a space primarily dominated by women. While a

few men work there as administrators, most of the staff is female and the programs are

aimed at assisting the camp’s women and children.

For me, the Women’s Center will become an island. It is a safe space and shelter

in the midst of the chaotic camp. Outside of the Women’s Center, I face both the problem

32

of being overwhelmed by my own perceptions as well as occasional, hostile reception.

The stimulation of a crowded, loud, foreign landscape is magnified by glares of judgment

or curiosity. I am continually reminded of my place: I am a foreigner, I am temporary, I

am viewed as representative of American foreign policies.

As time goes on, I become more of a regular fixture in the camp and less of a

novelty. This transition is largely due to the fact that I venture into the camp often,

spending most workdays visiting residents and observing interviews with women

contending for participation in a United Nations Development Programme (UNDP)

micro-financing project. Through these interviews I enter an array of socio-economic

circumstances ranging from the relieving to the heartbreaking, and I observe a myriad of

social spaces.

On my first day conducting interviews, I learn the word taali or “come”. It is a

word I hear often as I am invited into social spaces. This first occasion is much less

pleasant. An older woman stands in a doorway shouting “taali” into an apartment

building. A younger woman emerges at the door. She heard the command and appeared

here, but otherwise, she remains unresponsive, her dark eyes point downward, a solemn

and debilitating hunch in her stance. She is resigned to the evident poverty. The

apartment is sparse – a couple of rooms with scattered stacks of clothes and a handful of

sleeping mats, and little else. No furniture, no decorations, just the essentials for

continued existence. Moreover, she is ashamed, though I cannot quite grasp what fuels

her painful sentiment.

Another day, I stand in a doorway looking in. I stand in the frame of what should

be a door. The molding has deteriorated along the edges and crumbled into a worn and

33

open wound-like boundary. Inside the apartment, along the shelves there are carefully

placed, intricate miniature models – ships and castles and al-Aqsa Mosque itself. Hours

and hours of hands working tediously to create beautiful wooden shapes draped in tiny

swathes of wildly colorful cloth. These would sell for a fortune in the United States. Four

children giggle in a room nearby. Their photos are plastered all over the walls. Happy,

baby faces and a young, vibrant mother fill the space with warmth.

When the interview begins, I try to follow with my minute comprehension of

Arabic. I pick up a few words here and there as the woman talks jubilantly about her four

kids and husband. Suddenly, she bears a look of sorrow.

“Surgeon.” Her eyes catch my gaze and she states it again, almost in a whisper:

“Surgeon.”

“Oh, surgeon?” I repeat back with a naïve grin. How wonderful. He’s a surgeon.

Perhaps he has a decent salary. Perhaps one day the family can leave this deteriorating

apartment, the crowded camp, and build the beautiful life that they so clearly deserve. My

heart is full of relief, my eyes visibly hopeful. Nabeel and Mays, the social workers from

the Women’s Center, kindly inform me that I am mistaken.

“No, no,” they shake their heads. “Surgeon, surgeon. You know, surgeon?”

Now they are almost shouting, not in frustration, but in desperation for me to

comprehend. Nabeel wraps her fingers around each wrist.

“Surgeon, forever.”

I later learned the word is actually سجين, pronounced sijjin. I repeated it in my

head all that day and the next and the next:“sijjin, prisoner, forever.”

34

Later in the month, we ride out farther into the camp than I’ve previously

travelled. Houses here are sparse compared to the dense center of the camp. For the first

time, I notice that the landscape rolls as the earth rises and falls. It probably does this in

the center of the camp as well, but it is difficult to notice land underneath – covered by a

blanket of slums.

Apart from a handful of schoolyards, there is no open, public land inside the

camp, a problem that I hear repeated by the children at the community center.

Accordingly, there is a chronic need for freedom, both politically but also quite literally

as space in the camp is consumed for essential uses. Even the play yard at the school

serves multiple functions: a driveway for vehicles, a walkway between classrooms, and a

marketplace. When open, the space is easily coopted by the frenetic energy of children

long-confined.

Young girls are especially impacted by this lack of public, open space. Boys roam

the streets in relative safety, but the girls travel in groups swiftly from place to place:

home to school, school to market, market to home. Their lives are particularly isolated,

though certainly not inactive. Girls and women thrive in their own, private spaces.

The Women’s Center is one such space in the camp; however, primarily women

gather in domestic spaces in the camp. The UNDP visits give me myriad glimpses into

these spaces, but I also enter by invitation from friends in the camp. When I am invited to

dinner at residents’ homes I graciously and curiously accept. On one such occasion, I

walk through several markets and shops picking up items for dinner, helping to prepare

the meal, and playing with the smaller children.

35

Most of my experience of domestic space is during my time in Anata with the

Hanadi’s family. Hanadi is an administrator at the Women’s Center in her mid-twenties.

She has a quiet, but strong, confident presence. She will become my closest friend. On

my first day in Shu’fat Camp, I am told that I will stay with Hanadi’s family in Anata, the

town that adjoins the camp until a permanent place has been found for me.

Anata

Hanadi and I drive out of the camp and into Anata, though the two are nearly

indistinguishable from each other. There is no physical border, camp simply morphs into

town. However, there are subtle differences. The camp is crowded with multi-level

apartment buildings, which are consistently either deteriorating or only partially built,

never in architectural prime. These buildings become scarcer as the road leads out of the

camp, though it is still lined with housing.

Hanadi and I arrive at the Khoury family’s three story building in the late

afternoon of my first day in Palestine. We knock on the locked first floor door and it

opens to a warm embrace. Hanadi’s mother has dark brown hair that curls at the ends and

deep wrinkles along the sides of her mouth, formed by years of laughter and sorrow. Her

eyes are kind and soft, but pained. She has clearly lived a life with both genuine struggle

and joy. Perhaps it is impossible to experience one without the other.

Hanadi’s father passed away years ago, but his memory is present throughout the

house. It is no longer clear who is the head of the family. Muhammad is the oldest male

and he takes his role seriously. He provides, plans, and represents the Khoury family

throughout the community. However, Hanadi’s mother is undeniably a powerful leader in

36

the family. Her voice, though soft, is the last to be heard in any quarrel or decision-

making process.

Excitement and adrenaline have kept me awake and alert, but by the late

afternoon delirium is threatening my perception. Hanadi can see in my eyes that the

journey is wearing on me and she leads me to the flat upstairs where Muhammad lives

with his wife, Hanan, and their two children. I am led to the bedroom of their older child,

Rasha. She is a curious and delightful and wonderfully troublesome three year old. She is

always dancing on top of the living room table, climbing the curtains, twirling in circles

around the entryway, or shouting at the top of her lungs. She constantly leads a pack of

her cousins around the house whether they are older or younger than she. She shows no

hesitation, no timidity, no submission and I wonder to myself about the woman she is

destined to become: strong, rebellious, fierce. It seems inevitable as her parents seem

intentional in their support of her bold personality. Rasha is young, but she is already

challenging my assumptions about women in Palestine.

Rasha’s room has two child-sized beds and I fall into a deep and sudden sleep

sprawled across one of the tiny mattresses. I awake to bursts of noise, explosions, and

rapid fire. Looking out of Remus’s window, I can see miles of rural land outside the

city’s reach. Miles and miles into the West Bank, where someone is, as I later discover,

setting off fireworks. Every evening it is the same: fireworks for the beginning of school,

fireworks for the ending, fireworks for a birth, for a wedding, for a funeral. I learn this

affinity for fireworks and celebration only later. At the moment I look out with fear and

hesitation. I wonder why no one else seems concerned by the bombs exploding nearby,

37

potentially coming this direction, but no one else seems even slightly alarmed so I keep

silent and follow the calm or resignation of those around me.

On my first morning in the Khoury family’s house, I awake early to the sound of

the imam in the nearby mosque calling followers to prayer. Hanadi is already awake,

carefully gathering her hijab and covering her dark, straight hair with an even darker,

opaque cloth. She unrolls a patterned rug as I sleepily crawl out of bed.

Hanadi will become my closest friend and confidant. We spend hours together

throughout most of the day and evenings too. We observe, explain, even bicker. She

teaches me Arabic and I teach her English and we both get exhausted and frustrated with

learning a foreign language and maneuvering difficult pronunciation. There are days

when the Khourys decide not to speak to me in English at all. Those days I am

particularly tired and somewhat isolated, but those are also the days when I learn the

most.

I see the town of Anata only in glimpses: riding to work in the mornings and

evenings, walking around to visit family and friends late at night. The town is a growing

pulse with veins of dirt roads policed by roaming packs of stray dogs that exists along

side these family gatherings. Like much of Palestine, the town is rapidly changing filling

in open spaces and creating new avenues for movement.

Most of my time in Anata is spent at the Khoury’s house or in one of Hanadi’s

sisters’ apartments. We venture between private, domestic spaces throughout the evening,

sometimes until the early morning hours. Like the other women in the family, I wear

hijab when I am outside the house at night. But we all remove our coverings upon

entering familiar homes. There is a deep sense of warmth in these spaces. Not only do we

38

abandon hijab, but mothers openly nurse and fathers affectionately swoon over their

children. Many of the social norms that I carry with me from the United States are

upended in these spaces. And, often the meaning of concepts like modesty and

masculinity are radically challenged.

One evening, I gather with Hanadi and her sisters in Muhammad and Hanan’s

upstairs apartment to celebrate Hanan’s birthday. Hanadi’s mother and other relatives

watch the children as we dressed up in sparkly, cocktail dresses, drink coffee, eat sweets,

and dance. The women teach me traditional Palestinian dance moves and beg me to show

them some American dance moves, which I attempt with embarrassment. Hanan brings

out a photo album of her past birthdays and I am surprised to see several occasions of

large parties with women in revealing, Western cocktail dresses. These events are held in

spaces where only women are permitted.

There are other social norms that I encounter with surprise in these domestic

spaces. In particular, I learn about traditions of marriage and family values. We talk often

of marriage because Hanadi’s younger sister, Isra, is considering marrying a man who

lives near Ramallah. The consideration is so serious that Hanadi’s family travels to

Ramallah to meet with the man’s family. This is one of the first steps in their official

courtship. Isra seems very excited about this prospect early on. The man is a friend of

hers and she has been communicating with him frequently, often in secret through social

media. But when the family returns from the visit, I am told that the marriage will not go

forward. Hanadi explains that there was not an objection to the man or his family so

much as the distance. Ramallah is an hour away, which is much too far for Isra to raise

children apart from her own family. Surprisingly, Isra seems to accept this without

39

hesitation and she outwardly abandons her interest in the man. “It’s too far,” she assures

me. This is when I learn that Hanan’s own family lives next door. Muhammad and Hanan

are passionate about their love for each other. I am astonished to learn how convenient

their marriage was for both families and that it started with acknowledgment of a good

social match before romance took root.

Marriage traditions surprise me in other ways as well. I encounter polygamy,

always a man and two wives. The polygamous relationships I observe take place within

older generations. Hanadi explains, “Two wives are good, three wives can work alright,

four wives though, that’s too many.” She shakes her head as I try to follow along. One of

these marriages involves Hanadi’s grandparents. I meet her grandfather, grandmother,

and her grandfather’s second wife one night while visiting family. We sit outside in a

large circle and pass giant pieces of warm pita.

One of the biggest compliments I received was an invitation from the Khourys to

stay in their home as long as I wanted. One of the biggest regrets I have is that I didn’t

stay. Living with a family in a foreign culture was incredible and challenging. I thrived at

the Khoury’s house. I grew in unimaginable ways having no choice but to challenge the

most intimate and flawed parts of myself, to confront discomfort, and to adapt deeply. I

think back and wonder if I stayed longer would I have gone insane in the best way. Not

losing myself, but finding myself, or rather becoming a stronger self in the face of

adversity by losing the excessive aspects of my character: my laziness, my indulgence,

my depression. By losing the context for myself so that I could be left with a core of

decency to build on, edified purely by the Khourys, the arid landscape, the tenacious

camp community.

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I reflect on this often, though I always conclude that my fondness for my time

with the Khourys was clarified and augmented by my other experiences of Jerusalem.

These experiences were in some ways much more familiar to me and in other ways

startlingly different, though perhaps always less sacred and definitively less intimate than

my time in Anata. When I first moved to the other side of the Wall it was to experience

another part of Jerusalem and to procure needed solitude. I am rarely alone in the camp or

Anata – a fact that I find both exhausting and nourishing. However, in time I realize my

deep need for quiet reflection. When a friend from Oregon offers for me to stay with him

in West Jerusalem, I take the offer and set out to find a new place west of the Separation

Wall.

Nachlaot

After Anata, I initially moved to Nachlaot, a hip neighborhood in West Jerusalem.

Nachlaot, like much of West Jerusalem, is oddly western and lacks some of the isolating,

personal barriers that I experienced in Anata and the camp, barriers encountered due to an

unfamiliar language, culture, and religion. Alternatively, many people in West Jerusalem

speak English and the societal norms are largely familiar to me. I lived with a kind and

intelligent German neuroscience student. Our lifestyles seem oddly similar and our

compatibility all but guaranteed after the first meeting.

There are moments of unease. For instance, one night I accidently lock her out of

the apartment and she has to sleep at the eccentric woman’s apartment next door. And I

struggle, unexpectedly, with sleeping in a lofted bed, my face inches from the ceiling. I

become an insomniac. Nights flow into days with tiring routine: coming and going to the

camp, visiting the Khourys in Anata, walking through Jerusalem. Simultaneously,

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unexpected and beautiful moments appear scattered throughout these varied spaces.

Quickly, my hours fold and unfold with an array of relationships and places, challenges

and rewards dotted with social gatherings and moments of refuge.

The apartment itself is quite lovely; a gem in the midst of odd layouts and

crowded communes of Israeli housing structures. A synagogue is located directly across

the cobble stone street and I spend mornings drinking coffee and looking over the

observant Jewish congregation split carefully by gender. Men and older boys gather in

groups on one side, while woman and children remain on another. I am a voyeur to the

religious community gathering before me nearly each day.

We lived a few streets away from a prominent, large, and colorful Israeli

marketplace, the Shuk. It is an unofficial border between the modern, commercial area of

Jaffa Street and my quiet, religious nook in Nachlaot. The Shuk has a main, open-aired

drag with a labyrinth of venders and small shops spread throughout intersecting, diagonal

alleyways. Here you can buy fruits, vegetables, spices like saffron and zatar, bottles of

Israeli wine and arak. It is well worth the trek from any part of the city to get to the Shuk

early in the day to taste the warm and gooey chocolate rugelach from one particularly

famous vender, likely the best in the world. Crowds of Israelis and tourists flood the

market, especially in the hours leading up to Shabbat. It is nearly impossible to walk

against the current, though I try each day to carefully wade through to the other side on

my way from work to home.

The streets to the west of the Shuk change instantly. The market crowds disperse

into scattered businesses that lead to Jerusalem’s main Israeli bus station. After the bus

station, pedestrians are more dispersed, traveling more often by car or bus or train along

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the highway veins. I walk with a few friends until it is quiet, spare the traffic noises. We

continue toward a curious place just beyond Jerusalem’s urban center: Lifta.

Lifta is a derelict landscape nestled under the highway bridges that connect

Jerusalem to the rest of Israel. The boundary separating bustling West Jerusalem from

Lifta is a modern sidewalk that spirals down to a gravel road. The cultural identity of

these spaces stand in stark contrast. The adjoining section of Jaffa Street is largely

commercial with consistent crowds of Jewish Israelis, internationals, and tourists

shopping and dining along the well-lit road. On the other hand, Lifta is sparse and void,

lacking any present inhabitants. Lifta was once an Arab Palestinian village, but its

population fled during the 1948 War. The buildings and houses remain in tact, though

crumbling in decay under the incessant and unrelenting pressure of passing decades.

Cultural identity is demonstrated through the behavior and norms of a society,

often expressed by the human population in a space. Even in the void of present

residents, Lifta exudes a certain cultural identity that is intrinsically tied to its past. Lifta’s

present neglect provides a glimpse into the social and political state of Jerusalem under

Israeli occupation. Lifta is a shrine and memento of a tragic history, a constantly evolving

victim to the shifts in time as much as anywhere else.

During my stay in West Jerusalem, I eventually grow weary of the long commute

to and from the camp. I am hesitant to use to Israeli light rail to ride to the Arab bus

station near Damascus Gate and so I walk the mile through Jerusalem’s various

neighborhoods. I feel nourished by the city, its vibrant, strange inhabitants are regular

characters that overlap along my path. But the walks are draining as well. The air is hot

and wet. In the evenings I am soaked with sweat by the time I reach Nachlaot. And, I find

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myself in a rush most mornings, not so much afraid of my own delay as the expectedly

unpredictable tardiness of the bus to the camp. And so, my residency in Nachlaot ends

with an opportunity to move to East Jerusalem’s Bab al-Zahra neighborhood and an

interesting new internship.

Bab al-Zahra

In late September, I begin a second internship. This one is a policy-driven and

research-based internship at the Center for Democracy and Community Development

(CDCD) in East Jerusalem. The CDCD is a Palestinian NGO that uses community-based,

democratic practices to promote the Arab-Israeli peace process, and gathers Israeli and

Palestinian stakeholders and facilitates dialogues toward conflict resolution. Walid

Salem, the director of the CDCD, is an eccentric and brilliant leader. His mind is

continually reeling with ideas for projects. I’ve never met anyone quite as prolific and

determined to execute various endeavors, all aimed at peace.

In particular, my work primarily focused on policy recommendations for ongoing

negotiations and research on the humanitarian crisis unfolding in the Gaza Strip in late

2013. Additionally, I attend numerous conferences focused on the Arab-Israeli conflict,

humanitarian law, Middle East diplomacy, and post-conflict strategies.

The CDCD is located in East Jerusalem near Sheik Jarrah. My new apartment is

only a few blocks away in Bab al-Zahra, an Arab neighborhood off Salah al-Din Street

near the Old City. The space is crowded with shops and busy vendors. My neighbors are

predominately Arab Muslims and they are often seen kneeling, heeding the call to prayer

at intervals throughout the day.

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Few people here speak English. And, as in the camp, I am engulfed in the Arabic

language. It is the currency of expression and connection. My lack of knowledge

excludes me from participation at a basic level: greeting, gratitude, fundamental requests

of commerce. Language is a barrier, but also a bridge. And seeing the void in my

experience, I enroll in Arabic classes at nearby Al-Quds University. Here, the streets are

much less commercial, instead lined with residences and an occasional, quiet corner

store.

Though Bab al-Zahra and Sheik Jarrah are predominantly Arab Muslim, East

Jerusalem is occupied by Israel – a fact that I often forget as there is little Israeli presence

in these particular neighborhoods, though other areas have growing Israeli populations.

Accordingly, I am surprised to see an Israeli solider on my street late one afternoon as I

round a corner near my apartment. Quite suddenly, I notice other soldiers stream out of a

large military truck. Eventually, nearly twenty Israeli soldiers crowd around the

apartment next to mine. They are dressed in black riot gear with full protection, dark

helmets, and large guns. The soldiers faces are covered by black swaths of cloth, which

seem to preserve their anonymity, but also hide their humanity. I watch them for hours

from my window until the streets grow dark. Finally, they group arrests my neighbor,

hauling him to an Israeli prison for questioning as I later read in a news article. Their

presence feels like an intrusion not only because the routine of the street is interrupted,

but also because the culture of this site is transformed from Arab to military Israeli.

The other times that I see soldiers in this part of town are at boundaries along the

Old City wall. The wall that surrounds the Old City is another example of a physical-

political boundary. While the numerous gates are often open so that the Old City is

45

accessible to the public, there are times when barriers are erected to act as checkpoints

during times of high tension. These additional boundaries are used to control protests and

prevent clashed, typically by prohibiting young, Arab males from entering the Old City.

For instance, one afternoon, I encounter Israeli police barring men, youth, and

even old women from entering the Old City to pray at al-Aqsa Mosque. It is Laylat Al

Qadr, the holiest night of the year for Muslims and crowds of Palestinians are trying to

get to al-Aqsa Mosque. Most are turned away at various barriers near the Old City gates,

though I am able to get through without a problem. “Take a picture. Take a picture for the

future,” an old, Arab man pleads near Herod’s Gate. Moments later, a young, male tourist

from South Africa is denied entrance, ironically complaining, “I’ve never been so

oppressed in my life.”

My own privileged identity allows me to pass through many barriers, but also

excludes me from actually belonging to the local community. Later in the year, it is early

December and Jerusalem is unexpectedly covered in several feet of snow. Palm trees and

ancient, Mediterranean architecture rises out of thick, white blankets of snow in a surreal

collage of imagery. The city is tranquil and peaceful as though the snow miraculously

and momentarily healed the wounds of its past.

Walking through Jerusalem’s Old City, I involuntarily move between shadows of

ice and soft, melting snow. I am sliding and trudging, not stopping because it will take

more energy than I have for me to start again. Besides, it is dangerous to rest. Large

chunks of packed snow are hurled at me from above. They stand on the balconies and

roofs—grown men, not boys—with strong arms and deep voices. “Ajnabi!” or

“foreigner” they shout in Arabic, while another round of snow pelts me in the thigh and

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arm. It is painful when the snow hits, but still I laugh. We all laugh, as if we are playing a

game together. But, I know that there is animosity in the word “ajnabi”. I realize for the

first time that if I stay in Palestine for the rest of my life, learn Arabic fluently, devote my

career to this cause – even then I will be called “ajnabi”.

Musrara

My later experiences of Jerusalem are crowded with internationals and

intellectuals. Much of my time is spent sitting outside West Jerusalem’s coffee shops and

bars. Places like Uganda, which was named for the central African nation that nearly

became the Jewish homeland, and el-Bier, HaCassetta and 420 bar. All of these are

located in a small enclave off West Jerusalem’s popular Jaffa Street, conveniently at the

top of the hill that leads to Musrara then East Jerusalem and then the Old City. Often, we

gather here to debate the two-state solution, international aid, and comment on the

growing tension between Israel’s Jewish youth and Arab residents of Jerusalem.

These nights often end at Hataklit, one of Jerusalem’s few gay-friendly bars. A

crowd of blurred bodies dance in the small, main room of the club, while a small fan at

either end brings a welcomed breeze across the warm dance floor. An array of regular

characters frequent these bars and I become familiar with many of them. There are

Israelis that work for NGOs like Breaking the Silence, Europeans interning with their

respective governments, and an eclectic crew of local LBGTQ. Among them is an

unexpected personality, an ultra-Orthodox Jewish Israeli. He comes in traditional ultra-

Orthodox attire, long, white strings streaming from his belt loops. Occasionally, he takes

off his kippa and places it on the head of a passing dancer, twirling to the music,

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indulgent in momentary freedom from the strict social rules of the ultra-Orthodox

community.

I have a few other notable encounters with the ultra-Orthodox community. While

living in Musrara, I walk near the entrance of a large ultra-Orthodox neighborhood. I am

warned early on not to enter without being accompanied by a resident. For one thing, this

community is particularly critical of outsiders. For another, there are very strict social

rules, particularly around gender segregation, that I would invariably break should I

wander in on my own. A close, American friend emphasizes these warnings by telling me

of her own accidental jog in tight, short workout attire through the center of the

neighborhood, which was met with harsh glares and hostile words.

I experience a lot of hostility from the ultra-Orthodox community, mainly when

driving on Shabbat; however, I have one unexpected conversation with an ultra-Orthodox

man on a walk to my apartment in Musrara. I am nearly home when he stops me and asks

the time. He explains that he cannot use his phone and fears that he’s late to meet a

friend. We talk on the walk and his kindness reassures me of the complex humanity

within every group, regardless of the violence of a few members under an ideology of

exclusion.

And yet, in the months of Operation Protective Edge, a noticeable strand of

violent upheaval takes over the streets of Jerusalem. From my apartment in Musrara, I

view both East and West Jerusalem. Living on the seam of the city allows me to observe

a contentious boundary. Often, the line exists subtly in the background of daily life

bustling around it; but, on some days the border erupts.

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One evening, I hear a pulsing chant coming from West Jerusalem. It starts as a

soft, determined echo steadily rising with a crowd marching toward the Damascus Gate. I

stand on the balcony overlooking Route 60, the unofficial border between West

Jerusalem and East Jerusalem. From here I can see a mob of young Israelis descending

Musrara’s hill along HaNevi’em Street. The Arab shops just across the road seem to

brace for impact. “Death to the Arabs! Death to the Leftists!” screams the crowd now

running toward the Damascus Gate. “Your mother is a whore! An Arab is a son of a

bitch,” others call out.

Suddenly, there is a loud explosion from a sound bomb as the street floods with

Israeli police. I run down the staircase to meet the mob retreating in waves, dispersing

into Musrara with tears streaming down their faces. I hold my camera steady. The light is

low, but I capture a few photographs of the crying radicals. “No pictures! No pictures!”

they scream. I defiantly continue taking exposure after exposure.

I will speak with friends later, many of whom are activists, and we will comment

on the inexperience of these young Israeli radicals, their quickness to retreat after a single

sound bomb. We have all experienced harsher tactics. Old women in Palestine live

through tear gas and sound bombs and flash bombs and rubber bullets and that is a life

they have not chosen, but these teens voluntarily try to start a clash and leave at the first

obstacle. Later, I realize that there are other complexities at play. These young Israelis are

unexposed to the harshness of life under occupation, of course. But they also carry their

own narratives of victimization. They live immersed in an acute and real fear of violence

and hostility toward their Jewish identity. Further, an increasingly right-wing political

movement motivates some of these Israeli youth.

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It is not uncommon for adjoining spaces and experiences to completely foil each

other. Jerusalem is a city of contradictions. Within a five-minute walk, I am kindly

offered a gift of falafel from a familiar vendor near the Damascus Gate and harassed by a

man that tries to trip me with his outstretched leg. Perhaps more illustrative of these

complexities is the night that Ahmed, a Palestinian friend, is prevented from meeting

with me and a group of friends because there is a clash on Salah al-Din Street. My group

decides to intervene. Or rather, to observe the clash for ourselves with the hope that we

can somehow help our friend.

We cross through Musrara and start the walk past the Arab corner stores that I

frequent, including the one that secretly sells an eclectic mix of wines if you know which

wall to walk behind. Abruptly, we are immersed in a horrifying scent comprised of

rotting flesh and feces, chemically created to stop breath: skunk water. A modern tool of

crowd control, skunk water is used by Israel to break up demonstrations, but also to

collectively punish Palestinian neighborhoods. For weeks after this clash, residents will

be physically nauseated entering their own houses, stores, and schools.

We arrive on Salah al-Din Street to a group of Israeli soldiers blocking the street

from pedestrians. Moments later, police on horseback charge toward us and we quite

narrowly escape being pulled under their powerful hooves. A small group of Arab men

stands nearby and watches as a few old women shout out to the soldiers. A man explains

that the women are trying to get home. The elderly women creep cautiously closer when

a green light appears on their chests. Uncertain if the bullets are rubber or live

ammunition, the women freeze. Suddenly, an emblazoned orb flies toward the small

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crowd that has gathered. Around me, men are running and shouting. I run too, the sound

of explosions ringing through the night sky.

Realizing we cannot get to Ahmed this evening, we make a plan to meet on Jaffa

Street as soon as possible. What follows is a surreal ten-minute walk. We are dazed and

stunned, unsure of our own fault in the preceding events and feeling guilty at our ability

to so easily abandon the scene. We follow the Old City wall. It is our guide as we walk

past Herods Gate then Damascus Gate then New Gate. Some of the Arab shops and

vendors are still open and people dart around the street, shouting in Arabic, and

continuing daily life without pause for the clash only a hundred or so meters away. We

begin to doubt what we just experienced as we crest the hill and walk down Jaffa Street.

The West Jerusalem street is brightly lit and jovial. Groups of friends gather outside at

the many sidewalk cafes. There is laughing, and dancing, and music.

At some point, I enter the restroom in HaCassetta. I need a quiet moment to hold

on to the events of the last hour before they start to fade into the carefree crowds around

me. It isn’t difficult to be brought back to Salah al-Din as the small space quickly fills

with a familiar rotten scent. I reek, my elbow and back damp with skunk water.

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CHAPTER VI

BOUNDARIES, SPACES, AND HETEROTOPIAS IN JERUSALEM

Our social space is defined and divided by boundaries and borders. Official

borders may require certain authorization to cross, while other borders are defined by a

change in culture, social norms, or character. Throughout my time in Jerusalem, I

observed various boundaries that divide, define, and create Jerusalem’s social spaces. In

particular, I note physical-political boundaries, boundaries of cultural identity, gender

boundaries, and heterotopias.

Physical-Political Boundaries Jerusalem has a multitude of physical-political boundaries that divide, define, and

confine areas of the city, including the Separation Wall, the Old City wall, and a number

of highway roads. These tangible, visible boundaries are functional icons that separate

communities based on cultural identity, shape gendered spaces, and create heterotopic

spaces of otherness. Accordingly, boundaries and spaces construct collective narratives

that influence and perpetuate the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

While physical-political boundaries are prevalent throughout Israel and the West

Bank, walls in particular are concentrated in number and significance in Jerusalem. Klein

(2005) found, “Due to the multiplicity of walls in Jerusalem as well as the activation of

various kinds of passage regimes and control, the relations between Israelis and

Palestinians in the city were more varied than in other parts of the West Bank” (p. 53).

These boundaries regulate accessibility to certain areas, excluding some communities,

while protecting others.

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Checkpoints throughout Israel and the West Bank precede the construction of the

Separation Wall and exist apart from the Separation Wall; however, the Separation Wall

and its series of checkpoints are perhaps most initially noticeable. These boundaries are

both functional and symbolic barriers that divide and define Jerusalem’s spaces. The

Separation Wall is a physical-political boundary that functions in some places as a

division of sovereignty between Israel and the Palestinian Authority. However, the wall

varies in function and character. It is protective, aggressive, exclusive, and/or dominate

depending on time, place, and audience.

Accordingly, the Separation Wall can arguably fall into nearly all of the

categories of city walls under Marcuse’s model. It is a barricade wall in that it functions

for protection while defining cultural identity. It is a wall of aggression in that it

expresses Israel’s dominance over the Palestinian people. By protecting the Israeli people

and regulating admission, the Separation Wall is a sheltering wall. Although attenuated,

the Separation Wall is arguably a prison wall because it defines enclaves of the West

Bank, which struggle economically, socially, and politically. Further, the Separation Wall

can be viewed as a castle wall of superiority as well, though perhaps more so

symbolically than anything else. It defines a space of winners and losers, the civilized and

the primitive, the occupiers and the occupied.

The Separation Wall defines two political spaces: Israel and the West Bank. As

the Separation Wall spans an extensive area, the nature of the barrier varies significantly.

Portions of the wall are active, hostile grounds of division. However, much of the

Separation Wall is, in fact, a fence dividing space that is utterly indistinguishable with

olive groves, farmland, and pastures on both sides. Without the fence and before the

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construction of the Separation Wall, you could stand near the border between Israel and

the West Bank without knowing which side you were on. By constructing a barrier,

suddenly location is strongly and undeniably associated with a political entity rather than

the landscape. Accordingly, the Separation Wall creates political identity on either side,

and while this seems detrimental in many aspects, it also legitimizes land as being part of

something other than Israel, as being the West Bank, though whether or not this land will

become a Palestinian state is yet to be seen.

This variation in security (wall or fence) is mirrored in the checkpoints around

Jerusalem. For instance, Qalandia Checkpoint is an active border, commonly the site of

protest with accompanying rock-throwing by Palestinians and rubber bullets from Israeli

soldiers. A Palestinian woman gazed at me solemnly as we waited together between

locked, rotating gates like cattle. “Our lives are Hell,” she wailed. While waiting at

checkpoints is not itself hellish, it is inconvenient, traumatic, and dehumanizing.

On the other hand, Hizma is typically docile. On days when Qalandia was

exceptionally violent or crowded, I opted to go out of the way and travel through Hizma

instead. Even on those days of nearby turmoil, I was often not asked to exit the vehicle or

even to show identification at Hizma. However, these more relaxed barriers are

increasingly less common as Israeli policy seems to shift from “permeable walls to an

Israeli gate-keeping and limited crossing policy” (Klein, 2005, p. 53).

Boundaries of Cultural Identity

Along with political territory, boundaries divide and define cultural identity.

Ghazi Falah and David Newman (1995) noted, “in addition to horizontal territorial

structures, boundary concepts also relates to social, ethnic, gender, and class vertical

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structures” (p. 690). By creating and segregating spaces, boundaries help to build and

perpetuate cultural identities, in large part expressed through observable traits as well as

acceptable social norms.

In Jerusalem, cultural identity is strongly connected to ethnicity, religion, and

nationality with two distinct communities emerging. Jerusalem is largely divided between

East Jerusalem, which is mostly Muslim Palestinian, and West Jerusalem, which is

predominantly Jewish Israeli. Language is an additional characteristic that builds a

separate identity between the city’s conflicting sides with Arabic spoken in East

Jerusalem and Hebrew spoken in West Jerusalem. Accordingly, though residents of the

same city, Klein (2005) argued, “When a resident of East Jerusalem and one of West

Jerusalem refer to themselves as ‘we,’ it is rare for that pronoun to be grounded in the

reality of their lives and consciousness” (p. 58). Additionally, Klein (2005) emphasized

the powerful, intrinsic nature of cultural identity:

These walls are primordial ones that touch both on private territory and on public space in the East. When a person with a primordial Eastern identity enters the West or a space in which interaction takes place with people of a different, Western primordial identity, he is aware that he is different. This wall of consciousness is charged with heavy significance, and is very difficult to cross because it preserves a collective identity that demands personal commitment. This wall’s mechanisms of supervision and control are social: the individual usually assimilates society’s norms voluntarily. (p. 60)

In part, this division is related to the fact that Jerusalem is a frontier city. That is,

the split cultural identity of the city is inherently related to the development of the city as

a site of Israeli occupation and expansion. Accordingly, while conflict arises over

sovereignty and control, it also emerges over issues of, “collective identity, narrative,

social control, spatial division of labor, economics and control of resources, cultural and

administration” (Klein, 2005, p. 59).

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These cultural identities are further magnified by a process of “othering” that is

prevalent in the city. In creating collective identities, “drawing the boundaries of the

‘other’ and excluding him is essential to define ‘us’” (Klein, 2005, p. 59). In Jerusalem,

the intensity of collective othering observably waxed and waned in relation to the

political climate of the time. In particular, during Operation Protective Edge, a noticeable

magnification of othering took over the city.

For instance, a common reaction from my Jewish Israeli friends was concern and

warning when I mentioned that I lived or worked in East Jerusalem. I was often told to be

careful because East Jerusalem is a dangerous place. My Palestinian friends expressed the

same reaction upon hearing that I traveled or lived in West Jerusalem. You have to be

careful, they’d insist. West Jerusalem is a dangerous place. While I could cross these

cultural boundaries with some degree of neutrality because of my nationality and religion

many Palestinian and Israeli friends could not. Their warnings, though seemingly

exaggerated, came from their collective experiences and narratives.

And yet, I encountered several Palestinians and Israelis that pushed back on these

social norms of segregation and fear. For instance, a close Arab Israeli friend, Nizar,

traverses East Jerusalem and West Jerusalem, which make him included and excluded in

both communities. Additionally, my Arab Muslim friends Ahmed and Saed who lived in

East Jerusalem frequented West Jerusalem often. Both had a large network of Israeli

friends, connections that often led to trouble with other Arab young men who particularly

viewed Ahmed as a traitor. Accordingly, while cultural identity is particularly powerful

in Jerusalem, it is neither impenetrable nor static, thought it does come at a cost.

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However, boundaries of cultural identity notably became more rigid during times

of increasing conflict. Othering was particularly magnified in tense, political climates.

During many high intensity days of Operation Protective Edge, Nizar was reluctant to

enter public space or his own West Jerusalem neighborhood, a space in which he is

culturally viewed as the other and dangerous. At these times, Ahmed and Saed hesitated

to cross into West Jerusalem due to fear of being attacked. Often, their mothers locked

them inside their homes to prevent them from leaving out of fear for their safety.

One evening during Operation Protective Edge, Ahmed and Saed joined us at a

bar in West Jerusalem. We sat together outside and discuss the changing political climate.

A siren warning of imminent rocket fire alarms the masses gathered and I realized that

again the cultural identity of my companions would be viewed as separate from the

dominant cultural identity of this space. Saed, realizing an imminent hostile reaction

expressed his rising fear and frustration. “My identity by itself causes violence,” he

whispered, nearly crying.

These cultural boundaries are particularly apparent inside the Old City where

there is a vibrant culture of the ancient, the divine, the profound; ranging from the

smooth, soft stones worn from the passage of time to the daily rituals performed in the

streets. There is a sense of existence unique to this space due to its history and

functionality as a site of the holy: the First Temple of the Jews, the site of Prophet

Muhammad’s Night Journey, the burial place of Jesus Christ, among many others.

According, there are deep emotional and psychological ties to the Old City that cultivate

a collective sense of sacredness with the outer wall surrounding the Old City acting as a

physical demarcation of a cultural boundary.

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A journey through the Old City is dream-like: overwhelming in its varied scents

(pleasant and vile), tantalizing in its myriad of colors and textures, and chilling in its eerie

allies and gritty characters. More than once, I found myself lost among stairways that

seemingly led nowhere and stone that flourished without indication of location. Quite

suddenly and often around the most mundane corners, a signpost will indicate that this

very ground you are now standing on is in fact the site of some ancient, remarkable event.

In this way, the Old City feels disorienting, lucid, and absurdly timeless.

Simultaneously, the Old City is a labyrinth of cultural boundaries; webbed seams

that divide distinct spaces and identities. It is divided into quarters: Armenian, Christian,

Jewish, and Muslim, each space expresses a unique cultural identity. Wandering between

quarters can be jarring as the wanderer is immersed in an array of stimulating, unfolding

experiences: enthusiastic market vendors, stoic religious figures, tourists from all over the

world, and children: laughing, playing, and growing in the nooks of weathered walls.

The Jewish Quarter has undergone a series of recent renovations. Accordingly,

the area feels more contemporary than the rest of the Old City. There are numerous

Yeshivas, public squares, narrow alleyways, and residences adorned in Israeli flags as the

community notably expands. In the Jewish Quarter, Ultra orthodox and orthodox men,

women, and children commute through the streets, dressed in customary adornments:

dark, modest clothing, various traditional, black hats, and other talisman that indicate

religious sect, status, and occasion. The quarter echoes with sounds of chanted prayer and

chatter in Hebrew.

In the Christian Quarter, a different set of religious congregates roam. Priests,

monks, nuns, and members of various Christian doctrine occupy the Christian Quarter,

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often in contention with one another over territory. There are about 40 holy sites in the

Christian Quarter where crosses, crucifixions, nativity scenes, and other references to

Jesus Christ are evident. This space includes the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the site

where many Christians believe that Jesus was crucified and buried.

The Muslim Quarter is notably more busy and crowded than the other quarters,

particularly in the marketplace where buyers and vendors barter in Arabic over produce,

spices, and other daily necessities. Boys scamper between crowds carrying hot tea and

coffee. They supply shopkeepers with these beverages in what seems like an unending

stream of warmth, tradition, and caffeine. Here, some men wear traditional, Arab clothing

and many women, though not all, wear hijab. Periodically, the call to prayer echoes

through the quarter and small mats are unrolled for the devoted.

The Armenian Quarter is more still, quiet, and elusive than the other quarters. It

feels more hesitant to expose itself to outsiders. This combination of timidity and tenacity

generates a unique feeling of authenticity and culture. While there are vendors here, they

are fewer in number. The Armenian Quarter is predominantly residential, home to around

2,500 Armenians, occupants for over 2,00 years.

A multitude of vendors exist in each quarter of the city. While many specialize in

artifacts significant to the culture of their particular quarter, others carry a wide variety of

souvenirs: nativity scenes, stars of David, Islamic art. Often, these vendors can be

overheard skillfully employing clever marketing strategies. During my first time in the

Old City, I fell victim to this type of scam and entered a shop at the request of the owner

to assist with making a sign in English: Grand Opening. Undoubtedly, the shop had been

there for many years.

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In this sense, the cultural boundaries of the Old City are notably created by

othering certain individuals and groups, while establishing dominant, local identities.

Crossing the cultural boundaries of each quarter invites the attention that occasionally

accompanies the process of othering. For instance, I was sometimes harassed by young,

Arab boys mistaking me and my friends for Jewish Israelis. At the same time, I was often

the target of hostile glares and comments from Ultra Orthodox Jews who viewed me as

the other culturally and religiously.

In addition, the Old City is a mixture Lyman and Scott’s (1968) territory

classifications: home, public, and platforms of interaction. The Old City can be classified

as home because it includes predominantly personal residences in which members enjoy

tremendous personal freedom, though accessibility is limited for non-members. The Old

City has public territory that is open without needing permission to enter, though there

are rigid and binding rules of behavior in this space. These social norms vary across

cultural boundaries and depending on gender, religion, status, among other traits.

Additionally, the Old City is a platform of interaction where numerous social groups

interact from various cultural, religious, and political identities. Lastly, these types of

territories are sometimes fluid, which is particularly apparent when certain areas of the

Old City are barricaded or controlled by authorities.

Further, the Old City has such a vibrant collection of variously classified space:

sacred, profane, open, protected. It is not a singularly cultural community from the

standpoint of function or classification. There are residences, vendors, religious spaces,

historical sites. Accordingly, the Old City reflects myriad of Foucault’s sites, including

sites of transportation, sites of rest, sites of worship, sites of commerce. Moreover, the

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individuals that fill the space are eclectic and diverse: residents, tourists, religious figures,

military officers, and children. Further, the boundaries can be categorized as protective,

aggressive, exclusive, and dominant, falling into multiple of Marcuse’s classifications of

boundary walls.

The Old City’s cultural boundaries come into focus and alive under a policy,

practice, perception approach. These are active, dynamic boundaries that constantly

impact the relationships between occupants of the Old City, just as the conflict and

collaboration between occupants disrupts and develops these cultural boundaries. In this

sense, the cultural divisions of the Old City play a key political role as these boundaries

move with the expansion of certain communities and narrowing of others.

Applying Galvan’s concept of evolving identities to the Old City is challenging.

While cultural boundaries are in fact ever changing, the cultural identity of residents

seems largely, though by no means permanently, preserved within major constructs of

religion. This is not to say that the junkyard metaphor is inapplicable. On the contrary,

cultural identities and boundaries are under constant and creative construction and

reconstruction. Certainly, this is true of the areas being quite literally renovated

throughout the Old City, particularly in the Jewish Quarter. However, the junkyard

metaphor may be constrained, at least in part, by the powerful historical narratives that

remain as signposts of cultural identity to deeply entrenched communities.

Gendered Spaces In addition to cultural boundaries, Jerusalem has a multitude of boundaries based

on gender. Gendered spaces exist in private, domestic spaces and in public spaces, with

respectively ascribed social norms and cultural conduct. These gendered spaces are

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largely shaped by religion and culture, both in East Jerusalem and West Jerusalem. For

example, I observed boundaries and gendered spaces in Anata, within Ultra Orthodox

communities, and at the Western Wall.

In Anata, space was often prescribed to either men or women. Applying Lyman

and Scott’s classifications, each territory is relevant: private, home, public, and platforms

of interaction. Private territory is highly gendered in that men and women are held to

strict gender norms regarding their personal bodies, including identity, dress, and

behavior.

Additionally, gendered spaces were apparent in home territory at the Khoury’s

household. For instance, rooms were accessible only to men or women depending on the

time of day and company. For example, I brought a male friend with me to Anata on a

visit and he was promptly taken to drink coffee and smoke hookah with the other men,

while I spent the afternoon in my usual space – the living room with women and children.

In addition, certain tasks and roles were delegated according to gender, with

assigned accompanying space. For instance, the kitchen was mainly a female space as the

women in the household did most of the cooking. On the contrary, the back living room

was a male-space where men gathered to eat, drink, smoke, and converse outside the

company of women.

Further, Anata’s public spaces were often gendered. Walking the public streets of

Anata, women typically travelled with families or in groups of other women. Young men

often grouped together as well. Platforms of interaction are also relevant to gender

boundaries in Anata. In many spaces such as shops, streets, and buses, men and women

interact daily, blurring some gender boundaries, while upholding others.

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The wearing of hijab exemplifies the complexity of this situation. The hijab is

personal territory as it covers the body and expresses the identity, gender norms, and

convictions of an individual wearer. Simultaneously, for some Palestinians, the hijab is

associated with public territory and platforms of interaction, but it is removed when in

home territory. Additionally, in some sense, the hijab is an external barrier indicating an

internal boundary of modesty as well as devotion.

In my own experience, I wore the hijab in public during evenings in Anata in

order to preserve the good reputation of the Khoury family. However, the women in the

family and I removed our head coverings either when in the company of only women, or

when in the company of relatives, including men and women. In this sense, the hijab acts

as a physical boundary for private territory, as well as an indication of gendered space

subject to shifts depending on surrounding territory.

Boundaries that create gendered spaces occur during formal events as well as

daily life. For instance, at an engagement party for my friends, Leila and Sami, the men

and women were separated during the entirety of the event. I discover the entrance to the

space for women and enjoy a night of toasts, balloons, music, dancing, and sparkling,

sequence formal wear. Sami, the groom, bounces back and forth between this room and a

separate area where his male relatives and friends are gathered. However, there is great

diversity within Palestinian society regarding gendered spaces. Many celebrations,

engagements, and weddings are held in shared company. I attended a Palestinian wedding

in Nazareth in which men and women casually intermingled in celebration.

Further, gendered spaces are also a part of Jewish society. For example, the ultra-

Orthodox community often separates along gender lines. I observed this separation in

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Nachlaot at the synagogue across from my apartment, but also throughout daily life in

West Jerusalem. In particular, my neighborhood of Musrara had a large ultra-Orthodox

community. Women were mostly seen with children, while older boys and men stayed

together.

This pattern was also evident during formal ceremonies. Once, a large crowd of

men flooded the streets during the funeral of a well-known rabbi, carrying the body

above their heads in silence, and men often gathered in groups to protest non-orthodox

behavior. Every Saturday evening, I could hear men and boys shouting, “Shabbos!” as

they threw rocks at passing cars. I was the victim of verbal and physical barrages more

than once as I drove in taxis or on busses during the Sabbath. Once, I was in a taxi that

unintentionally turned toward a conservative neighborhood. Suddenly, a mob of men and

boys surrounded us, their fists pounding on the cab with hateful vigilance. Women are

not a part of these activities, relegated instead to female spaces.

Another notable example of boundaries based on gender occurs at the Western

Wall. The Western Wall is a retaining wall that was originally erected during Herod the

Great’s expansion of the Second Jewish Temple. The wall is considered sacred because

of its connection to the Temple Mount. Additionally, the Western Wall has grown to be a

symbol of Jewish devotion and identity, as well as taken on meaning as the site of Jewish

prayer and pilgrimage.

Applying Lyman and Scott, several categories of territories are relevant to the

gendered spaces at the Western Wall. As the space is public, permission is not necessary

apart from security checkpoints; however, rigid social norms are enforced concerning

modesty, respect, and deference. These norms directly impact private territory regarding

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visitor’s attire and behavior. Additionally, the area outside the barrier that protects the

Western Wall is a platform of interaction: a porous space where groups of men and

women can interact.

Closer to the Western Wall itself, a physical barrier creates a protected section for

prayer. A physical barrier divides this area into two spaces: one for men and one for

women. Analyzing this boundary under Marcuse, this barrier is a barricade wall, which

functions to define a cohesive area, either male or female. Additionally, the boundary

here is a sheltering wall of exclusion as it both prevents entry of the opposite gender and

prepares entrants for devotion. Accordingly, the gender barrier is protective and

exclusive, though can be viewed as aggressive or dominant to those outside the permitted

class.

This gender barrier is currently contentious as the government voted this past

January to create an egalitarian section of the Western Wall, which would be open to both

men and women, though the current administration has failed to implements the plan.

Reformation of the gender barrier at the Western Wall is supported by a variety of

groups, including non-Orthodox movements and feminist groups, such as the Women of

the Wall. The Women of the Wall is a feminist, Jewish group that holds monthly protests

at the Western Wall, largely focused on women’s rights to group prayer and to read the

Torah out loud at the Western Wall. One warm, summer afternoon, I observed the

Women of the Wall at their monthly protest. The women read and prayed in unison. On

the other side of the gender barrier, ultra-Orthodox Jewish men jeered and shouted, trying

to intimidate the women with an onslaught of verbal harassment.

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Accordingly, while gendered spaces are sometimes constructed along rigid social

norms and religious regulations, these barriers are not entirely fixed. As with political and

cultural boundaries, boundaries based on gender are active, contested, complex processes

subject to ever-changing societies. Further, gendered spaces offer safety, refuge, and

empowerment. Accordingly, these spaces can be particularly effective spaces of conflict

resolution.

Heterotopias Several spaces in Jerusalem can be viewed as heterotopias. In particular, I find

this comparison helpful when viewing Shu’fat Camp, which is a real site of otherness.

Shu’fat Camp is isolated from both Israelis and Palestinians by means of the Separation

Wall, but also as an enclosure of political, cultural, and socioeconomic otherness. Camp

Palestinians are viewed with suspicion from other Palestinians, as well as Israelis. Often,

Israelis and non-camp Palestinians alike view camp Palestinians as untrustworthy, lower

class, and dangerous. This estrangement from non-camp Palestinians further complicates

the identity of camp Palestinians and magnifies the sense of otherness in Shu’fat Camp.

Accordingly, the heterotopic traits of Shu’fat Camp are consequential to the daily lives of

its residents, as well as the role of refugees in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Applying Foucault’s six principles of heterotopias to Shu’fat Camp reveals the

appropriateness and value of the metaphor. First, we can view the camp as a site of crisis

in that camp residents are abnormal within their own society. Many are refugees, but

even those that do not have refugee status claim a certain class identity, and perhaps even

political identity, by residing in the camp. These identities are formed in part, as all

identities are, by how camp residents are viewed by others.

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Second, the camp has evolved tremendously in its function over time. While

initially, the camp was a space to house Palestinian refugees, it has transformed to a

space occupied by a wide range of economically struggling Palestinians, refugees or not.

Furthermore, the character of the camp has transformed greatly, gathering political and

ideological meaning beyond mere shelter. Additionally, the camp has taken on additional

physical boundaries, including the Separation Wall, as the meaning and value of its

geographic location changed from a space on the outside of Jerusalem’s urban center, to

an increasingly valuable piece of land impeding Israeli expansion and annexation.

Third, the camp is layered with meaning imposed by the inclusion of several

incompatible spaces. One such incompatible layer is created by the wide variety of

apartments within the camp. Some of these domestic spaces are incredibly sparse and

impoverished, with little furniture, no decorations, and perhaps only a few sleeping mats.

Alternatively, other spaces are lavishly decorated with formal furniture and collections of

artifacts. The wide range of sites is in itself incompatible, representing a socio-economic

slice of Palestine. And yet, these apartments are all within the same refugee camp. They

are, then, close in proximity, but also subject to the same class and political identity as

other camp Palestinians.

Another layer is the variety of organizations represented within the camp. There

are international organizations across a range of nationalities: Dutch, French, British,

American. In addition, the UN has many operations widely advertised throughout the

camp: health centers and aid groups. The camp depends on some Israeli municipal

services and the Palestinian Authority has a large presence as well.

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Fourth, the camp is connected to a break in time. However, rather than express the

accumulation of time such as the site of a museum, the camp approaches time with a

strange functionality of preservation and evolution. In general, Palestinian refugee camps

have been burdened or privileged with preserving the Right of Return while distant

politicians negotiate the conditions of Palestinian daily life. In this sense, the camp is

both a consequence of the 1948 War and a political symbol of a non-negotiable final

status term as well as a constantly evolving site of daily life for Palestinians.

Fifth, the camp is both porous and isolated. It is not difficult to enter the camp

officially, particularly compared to Jerusalem proper. In this sense, the camp is porous.

However, the camp is also incredibly isolated. Apart from a small slither that connects

the camp to Anata, the Separation Wall and an Israeli military compound essentially cut

off the camp from contact with other Palestinian communities. This porous isolation has

potential privilege since Palestinians can enter the camp without having Israeli

citizenship or the necessary identification to enter Jerusalem proper. However, residents

of the camp technically still live in Jerusalem, so they can preserve their Jerusalem

residency while living in the camp. This unique position allows camp residents to both

interact with Palestinians who do not have Israeli credentials while maintaining their own

residency status to preserve their access to Jerusalem.

Sixth, the camp is a space that functions in relation to other sites. It is closely

connected to Palestine politically, economically, and culturally, including the West Bank

and Gaza. Simultaneously, the camp is highly influenced by Jerusalem’s development

and climate. More attenuated, though still notable, are the camp’s relation to international

sites, which provide extensive aid and development in the camp. The camp as a

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heterotopia is an insightful analysis that informs the peace process in Israel and Palestine,

particularly concerning the issue of Palestinian refugees.

Conflict Resolution

Boundaries are active processes that shape our reality. Accordingly, Jerusalem’s

boundaries are connected to continued regional conflict. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict

has shaped Jerusalem’s physical-political boundaries, boundaries of cultural identity, and

boundaries based on gender. Additionally, Jerusalem’s boundaries and spaces influence

the development of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and its perpetuation. Heterotopic

spaces exemplify the impact of this phenomenon.

Physical-political boundaries are utilized by state actors to influence conflict. For

instance, Francesco Chiodelli (2013) looked at territorial implications of the Separation

Wall and argues, “the barrier continues the ‘Judaisation’ and ‘de-Arabisation’ process of

the city” (p. 417). Chiodelli (2013) emphasized the use of the Separation Wall to expand

Israeli influence over territory and diminish Arab Palestinian presence and influence. He

warned of a resulting Arab community “reduced to a series of residential enclaves in an

alien space” (Chiodelli, 2013, p. 417).

Klein (2005) argued that new walls in Jerusalem continue oppression and

isolation of Palestinians. Israel has erected numerous walls since 1967, which negate the

concept of an open Jerusalem and further divide East Jerusalem and West Jerusalem, as

well as East Jerusalem from the West Bank. However, it is important to note that as Jews

continue to move to East Jerusalem, boundaries are constantly shifting and being

undermined. Furthermore, the continued construction of boundaries and the annexation of

space, both by extensions of political control and oppressive transgressions, make the

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existing two-state solution increasingly unlikely. While political walls are implicated in

this process, boundaries based on identity are also involved, particularly due to the

overlap of communities and mutual dependency that takes place at certain intersections,

including the labor market, service industry, and health system.

Boundaries symbolize state power and reflect systemic practices. Through

exclusion of certain communities (Palestinians, Arabs, Muslims, young men),

Jerusalemites’ identities are institutionalized. These boundaries contribute to a painful

and evolving narrative of displacement, segregation, and perpetual conflict. During

increased tension there is a palpable shift in boundaries of identity as Nizar and other

Arab Israeli experienced during Operation Protective Edge. Additionally, certain

identities are magnified and the process of othering is amplified, becoming a powerful

political tool.

Galvan’s framework of orthodoxy and syncretism are particularly relevant to

boundaries of identity in Jerusalem. Cultural identities, while deeply entrenched, are not

entirely fixed. Rather, they are ever evolving with the constant development and

interaction of various individuals and communities. Accordingly, there is a growing

necessity for a medium between the two polarized conceptions to approach conflict

resolution in Jerusalem.

Boundaries based on gender are also highly relevant to the process of conflict

resolution. Gendered spaces are sites where life is often at is most potent, with a

particular openness to dialogue and vulnerability to change. By focusing on gendered

spaces, conflict resolution practices can introduce ideas and break existing political

barriers.

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Further, viewing the camp as a heterotopia provides another layer of meaning to

the conflict. Michel Agier’s (2008) description of his experience in refugee camps

resonates strongly. “Strange as it may seem to me,” he wrote, “their life then reveals a

part of myself, of my own humanity: every human being, placed in this situation of

exodus, waiting and non-definition must recompose themselves from a basis of

destitution” (Agier, 2008, p. 5). Agier (2008) continued by emphasizing, “By grasping

human identity at the sites of its denial, we inquire more directly into its foundations: this

is the revolt of life in contact with death; it is what they call in Colombia a peace built in

the midst of war, a home that is imagined throughout the exodus” (p. 5). Accordingly, the

heterotopic metaphor adds valuable meaning to the conflict resolution process in

Jerusalem by providing a framework through which we can view the effect of oppressive

policies at a human level and observe the interaction between boundaries and conflict.

Finally, it is essential to look at boundaries, spaces, and heterotopias not only as

simple demarcations of territory and character, but also as active, dynamic processes

under constant compromise. As shifts occur, it is valuable to note the effects of boundary

changes on politics, cultural identity, and gender norms. Simultaneously, political,

cultural, and gender-related developments affect the construction, deconstruction, and

renovation of boundaries.

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CHAPTER VII

CONCLUSION In July 2014, I travel to al-Araqib where the desert becomes a border between

relative calm and devastating destruction. My friend Aziz and I stand on the edge of the

Negev Desert as an evening breeze gently flows over us. We welcome the current, the

darkness, and the cold after a long day of July’s stagnant heat. In the background, the

Sheikh of al-Araqib recites solemn speeches denouncing demolition and prescribing

tenacity. His voice is strong, but tired as it defends this village, which the IDF has

destroyed over one hundred times (Boarini, 2016). His words are emotional and melodic,

a recited pleading in Arabic that is met with nods and sighs from a crowd of local

Bedouin and dovish Israeli Jewish activists gathered here to recognize the anniversary of

the village’s first demolition four years ago.

We stand facing the expansive, empty landscape. The shadows around the Sheikh

are barely visible as the crowd moves restlessly. In the distance, there is heavy rumbling

and the ground beneath us shakes under the burden of an invisible force echoing,

beckoning to us from across the void. Suddenly, the sky is alive with light. The horizon

appears in full view as a bright sphere furls toward southern Israel. The rocket’s

trajectory is quickly interrupted with a scattered flash, a fizzle, and a thud. I look to Aziz,

both knowing the source of light and sound: bombs are falling on Gaza tonight, rockets

are hurling toward Israel. We stand in silence, unable to divorce ourselves from the

unfolding atrocities and abrupt certainty of tremendous destruction, fear, and death. It has

been twenty days since the initiation of Operation Protective Edge. As with previous

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military operations into Gaza, this one will end with casualties on both sides, tempered by

parallel statements of disillusioned victory.

Here in the Negev Desert and many miles away in Jerusalem, boundaries are

telling the story of the evolving Israeli-Palestinian conflict through their construction,

destruction, and definition of social spaces. These unique site of overlapping boundaries

and spaces where the ancient folds into everyday life provide an unraveling narrative of

conflict. Often, change happens at the seams of society. Political and social shifts occur

on boundaries where contact, conflict, and compromise exist. By examining these sites

that are particularly vulnerable to transition, we can better understand social change and

affect genuine resolution.

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